


two kids, you and me

by astralscrivener



Series: vld fic requests [11]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Way More Keith-Centric, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, Keith (Voltron)-centric, M/M, Minor Character Death, This Got Way Longer Than I Expected, fic request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 01:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17437661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astralscrivener/pseuds/astralscrivener
Summary: Asking Keith to trust Lance is like asking him to breathe.The evolution of Keith and Lance's relationship over the years, starting on the day they first meet.





	two kids, you and me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueenEevee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenEevee/gifts).



> (title from renegades by x ambassadors, despite the fact that i spent my entire time writing this listening to the only exception by paramore)
> 
> THIS IS WAY LONGER THAN I EXPECTED TBH
> 
> "limit for fic requests is 5k!" i said. "some might go to 10k but nothing beyond that lol it's just not possible!" i said
> 
> well apparently i'm a diddly-darn liar but this is for nicole so it's okay
> 
> nicole i hope u cry
> 
> love u
> 
> **trigger warnings for multiple character deaths (nothing graphic), character injury, implied anxiety/depression and self-hatred,,,, i think that's it--y'know, the typical teen experience**
> 
> DISCLAIMER: this is **NOT** part of the squad up universe!!! this is a totally separate universe!!!

**i.**

            Keith and Lance are five when they meet, hiding behind their fathers’ pant legs on the first day of kindergarten.

            “Go on, Keith,” his father says, and ruffles his dark, unruly hair, tries to pry his son from his leg and usher him toward the door where the nice lady with the clipboard stands, checking off names as other kids his age abandon their anxieties, bid goodbye to their parents— _two and not one,_ Keith observes, a knot in his chest—and run right into the room. “I’ll be back for you at the end of the day.”

            Keith’s always been close to his dad, savors all the time he can get when his firefighter father is off-duty, because it’s not nearly as much as he would like, and now school is going to ruin things even more. So Keith clings harder to his father, digs small fists into his jeans and cuts eyes to the other boy holding fast to his parents, the boy with brown skin and dark, curly hair, and freckles all over his face, peeking out from underneath the sleeves of his t-shirt.

            His parents point at Keith, whisper something that has the boy’s face lighting up, something that washes away all his reluctance to start school for the first time. Jumping up and down, he releases his father’s pants, hugs both of them and gets kisses goodbye, and then he runs.

            Not for the door, but for Keith.

            Keith shrinks back behind his dad, but his father chuckles, and the boy doesn’t seem deterred. Wide blue eyes latch onto Keith, crinkle at their corners as a sunny smile takes over the boy’s face.

            “Hi!” he greets. “Are you starting kindergarten, too?”

            _Well, yeah, why else would I be here?_ Keith bites down on his response. It’s already bad enough, that he could have started kindergarten last year if he really wanted to—which, he did—but he doesn’t need attention like this. But his father seems to think otherwise, and shifts his leg slightly, and Keith loses his balance, momentarily lets go and is left without an anchor.

            “Yeah,” he finally answers, voice quiet.

            The boy gasps, in excitement more than anything, and sticks out his hand. “Me too! I’m Lance!”

            Keith hesitates, but then his father nudges him again. He peers up, at the warm smile he’s come to trust, trusts more than anything else, and has to believe in his dad. His dad’s always been right so far, has never lied to him, so why should Keith believe he’d lie now, of all times?

            So Keith takes Lance’s hand in his and shakes it firmly, just the way his father taught him, and Lance’s hand is warm and almost the same size as Keith’s, so very different from the adult hands of his fathers’ friends and coworkers, so very different from Matt Holt’s down the street and tiny, two-almost-three-years-younger Katie’s.

            “I’m Keith.”

            American school schedules are weird. They start kindergarten on a Thursday, and their teacher decides to take all of Thursday and Friday to get the kids oriented into school life. She assigns them buddies and assures them they’ll be doing fun things throughout the week. Keith’s quick to deduce that their partners go in alphabetical order by last name. By some sheer sliver of luck, Keith ends up with Lance.

            Lance doesn’t ever stop talking.

            He talks about anything and everything, but his favorite topics are space and movies they’re too young to watch—Lance emphasizes that point, about how his older brothers have a movie night and deemed him special enough to participate—so special he’s not supposed to share this secret, not with anyone, _definitely_ not with the twin sister who sits two tables over.

            Then he babbles about his sister. Her name is Rachel, her favorite color is _orange,_ which absolutely baffles Lance, because his favorite color is _red_ and _orange_ is just not bright enough to satisfy him and it’s the color of _traffic cones, Keith, she likes traffic cones!_

            Somehow, Keith doesn’t mind the nonstop stream of words coming from his partner’s mouth, not even when their teacher scolds them four times by the end of their first day— _them,_ because they’re partners until the weekend, but Keith likes it.

            Keith doesn’t remember the last time he played with someone his same age.

 

**ii.**

On Friday they tour the big kid part of the school.

            “Stay with your buddy,” the teacher advises, as if the whole class isn’t moving in one big pack. For some, this means linking arms, like Allura Altea and Shay Balmera, the first two names in their grade, and two of the prettiest girls Lance has ever seen, apparently. Especially Allura. Lance spent half the morning trying to talk to her before class started, and smiles and waves at her now, even as he takes Keith’s hand.

            Keith wrenches away.

            “What are you doing?!” He keeps his voice down, so the teacher doesn’t turn and yell at them again in front of the big kids, big kids like Matt, a few years ahead of them; even bigger kids like Keith’s dad’s friend’s son Shiro, who just moved on to some place called junior high. He doesn’t want the big kids to think he’s stupid and immature.

            Lance frowns, eyes shining with a hurt so genuine Keith already regrets being so harsh.

            “We’re supposed to stay with our buddy!” he says matter-of-factly. “I don’t wanna lose you!” He drops his voice and looks around conspiratorially, earning strange glances from a few of the other kids around them, but nobody asks questions, while Lance leans very much into Keith’s personal space. “The big kid parts of the school are _dangerous._ ”

            And he’s very much convinced of this fact, and cites years of information from his older siblings, and though Keith’s heard otherwise from Shiro and from Matt, he doesn’t question it. He doesn’t tell Lance he’s wrong. He just lets Lance take his hand again as their teacher leads them around the school, parades them through classrooms where the older students say _hi_ and _oh my God look how cute they are_ and their teachers tell them all about what’s in store a few years away from now.

            Keith impresses Lance when he says hi to Matt, and something warm unfurls in Keith’s chest when Lance points out each and every one of his siblings and says to them, _hey, this is my friend, Keith!_

            He’s the first friend Keith makes on his own.

 

**iii.**

            Keith spends kindergarten, first, second, third and fourth grade being pulled into Lance’s friend group. It’s how he makes friends with Hunk, a ray of sunshine who never goes anywhere without the orange bandana he wears tied around his head, because it was passed onto him to his father and he promised he’d always cherish it, and how better to cherish it than to wear it?

            It’s how he makes friends with Allura, who’s somehow fallen in with them and proves to be fun to talk to. She’s a little more serious than the rest of them, up until they get her to play games of pretend, and then she’s all-in. She adores sparkly things and never fails to show up to school in a top covered in either sequins or glitter, or sometimes both if it’s a special day.

            Shay gets roped into their shenanigans, too, and so does Lance’s sister. They bond over a shared love for Lance’s apparent least favorite color and geology, which, Keith’s never really found rocks all that fascinating, but they think they’re cool, and Keith never objects to learning new things, so he doesn’t interrupt when they get really into it.

            Keith introduces them all to Katie when she comes to their school, and then skips ahead two grades and ends up with them. Hunk takes her under his wing almost immediately the moment the word _robots_ leaves Katie’s mouth, and then Lance joins the two of them when he hears the words _space_ and _NASA_ and _astronomy._ Keith already knows everything Katie’s got to tell them, because he spent years growing up with the Holt family, but Lance throws an arm around his shoulder and drags him in when Katie begins rattling off all her desires for the future.

            When recess ends, and Lance lets him go, Keith feels cold.

 

**iv.**

            Keith is eleven when he experiences the most devastating day of his life.

            The morning starts out fine— _everything was supposed to be fine_ —when Keith’s father drops him off at Lance’s house for a day-long group playdate. The afternoon carries out as normal, with snacks and video games and Lance trying to flirt with Allura at least twice before giving up for the day. Lance beats them all at Call of Duty— _because I_ _’m a sharpshooter, baby!_ —and Shay beats them in Just Dance and Katie crushes them all at Mario Kart, and Keith is oblivious to everything happening on the other side of town.

            They’re outside when they hear the sirens in the distance, the wail of fire engines, and Keith looks toward the street fondly, because _that_ _’s my dad, off to save the day._ And then the group talks about their favorite superheroes, and get into heated debates over Batman and Superman and Spiderman, before Allura interjects that Wonder Woman could beat all of them, and Keith thinks about how his father’s always been better than any comic book or movie character.

            “That’s cheesy,” Lance says, and Keith realizes he’s spoken aloud. But then Lance cocks his head and smiles big and wide and shows off a missing tooth, the last of his baby teeth to go. “But that’s also kinda sweet. I love my parents, too.”

            And then it turns into the group talking about their parents, and their families.

            Keith doesn’t realize his is about to be shaken up forever.

            It’s not until late, late afternoon, when the sun is starting to set and not even Hunk—Lance’s _bestest best friend ever, we grew up down the street, just like you and the Holts!_ —remains behind at Lance’s house, that Keith starts to worry, starts to realize something is amiss, because his dad should’ve been home by now, should’ve been off hours ago, should’ve already picked him up and had him back home in time to have takeout for dinner.

            “Maybe he forgot?” Lance suggests as they sit in Lance’s living room. “Call him.”

            So Keith does.

            He politely asks Mrs. McClain to borrow the house phone, because he’s just not quite old enough for a cell phone yet— _next year, kiddo, I promise_ , his father had told him—and dials his home number, a number his father made him memorize over and over again. The house phone rings, and rings, and rings.

            And goes to the answering machine.

            Keith frowns as he lowers the phone from his ear and glances at Lance, who watches him with growing apprehension.

            “He should be home,” Keith repeats.

            “Well…maybe he’s on the road?” Lance tries this time, and then his face lights up with an idea. “Call his cell phone!”

            So Keith tries his cell phone, because that’s the other number his father made him memorize, _in case I_ _’m ever not home and you need to reach me._ And that one goes to voicemail, too; straight to the generic, automated message his father never bothered changing. Keith hangs up halfway through the robotic voice’s spiel with his insides feeling cold and hands the phone off to Mrs. McClain, who watches him with concerned eyes, and then turns away and starts dialing numbers.

            Lance notices his mother’s distress, notices Keith’s distress, and switches from the couch to the love seat, squeezes himself in right next to Keith, and hugs him.

            He hugs him, and Keith doesn’t speak, just melts into Lance’s embrace and stays there the whole time Mrs. McClain speaks in hushed tones in the kitchen, just the next room over. He stays there for twenty minutes until Shiro pulls into the driveway and Mrs. McClain lets him into the house, and by then Keith knows something is wrong because Shiro’s face is splotchy, and his eyes are wide, and he and Mrs. McClain immediately begin talking to each other.

            Keith is eleven years old when he receives the news that his father is dead and sobs hysterically into Lance McClain’s arms.

 

**v.**

            Keith’s life becomes complicated after that, and Lance keeps in careful orbit.

            The days after his father’s passing—along with two of his coworkers in a house fire just two neighborhoods away, _I was just two neighborhoods away, I never got to say goodbye_ —are a flurry of chaos as efforts are made to track down members of Keith’s family. As far as Keith knows his father is— _was, was, was_ —an only child. No siblings means no aunts and uncles means no cousins means no one else to take care of him, because his father’s parents are dead, too, and he never knew his mother, who walked out before he could remember her and never came back.

            Ensuing efforts to track down his mother also prove fruitless.

            Keith gets passed between his father’s coworkers, passed between friends whose families volunteer to keep him comforted and sheltered and fed for a night. Most often he ends up at Shiro’s—dad’s-friend’s-son-turned-babysitter-turned-something-like-a-brother—and the Holts’ and Lance’s.

            Keith stays with Shiro’s family for the funeral, misses school that day, doesn’t hear from any of his friends and doesn’t want to. In the evening he returns to his own house and Shiro stays to watch over him. They order a pizza and Keith eats it still dressed in funeral black, and then wipes out before he can take a shower and change into proper pajamas.

            He wakes up in his bed to Shiro calling for him to get up, and Shiro’s considerate enough to wake him up extra early, to do everything he couldn’t the night before. Then Shiro drives him to school, drops him off and tells him to go home with Lance that day, and Shiro will get him later, he promises.

            “Keith!”

            His name rings out across the schoolyard and then a body barrels into his. Keith stumbles a few feet and wraps arms around Lance, who’s already got him in a bone-crushing grip.

            “I’m so sorry,” Lance mumbles into his neck, and new tears sting Keith’s eyes, even though he was certain after everything yesterday that he didn’t have a drop in him left to cry. “I’m here for you, y’know?”

            His word rings true.

            Lance sticks by him the entire day. He must’ve been scheming yesterday, because the others in their friend group don’t question things. They fall into line like Keith’s personal bodyguards and shield him from anyone who might have questions, anyone who might have something unsavory to say. Lance leads them, is the one who remains closest to Keith’s side.

            In the car on the way back to Lance’s house, Lance sits extra close to him, and when they get there, they spend the entire day in Lance’s room, cuddled up on one bed, and watch mind-numbing action movie after action movie. They’re all Lance’s favorites, and Lance spends the entire time making commentary, quoting scenes, acting along with the characters.

            He gets Keith to laugh for the first time in days.

 

**vi.**

            Keith swings first.

            Lance leaves his side for barely two minutes—he went back into the classroom to go get the kickball he brought, so he and his friends could start a game—and when he comes back outside there’s already a circle of kids.

            “Lance, you need to see this!” Hunk shouts, racing up to him. His eyes are wide and terrified and he’s shaking slightly as he points to the circle where there’s screaming and yelling and shouting, a circle that teachers are already converging on.

            Lance’s gut twists and drops and he tucks the ball under his arm and _runs_ , runs so fast Hunk can’t even keep up with him. He pushes and shoves his way to the front of the circle, makes it there quicker than the teachers futilely trying to break through, and finds a brawl. Keith wrestles on the ground with James Griffin, a boy Lance never really cared for, still doesn’t. Both of them already have bruises forming on their cheeks, but then there’s a crack and Lance spots the first bit of red gush forth from Keith’s nose.

            “Hey!” Lance shouts, and breaks into the center of the circle as gasps go up.

            He drops the ball and someone scoops it up, but by then Lance doesn’t really care as he throws arms around Keith and tears him away from James, holds him back as one of James’ cronies swoops in and gathers him up, too, and then it’s Lance and Keith and James and Ryan Kinkade, two of them much worse for wear than the others as Keith and James still struggle to break free.

            “Let me go!” Keith shouts, but his voice wavers and Lance notices tears in his eyes when he looks closer.

            “What _happened?_ ”

            One of the teachers finally silences the shouting playground. The sixth grade teacher— _my teacher next year,_ and fear faintly strikes Lance’s heart as he holds fast to Keith’s arms—glares openly at Keith and James, face hardly softening as they spot the blood underneath Keith’s nose, the bruises blossoming like ugly flower petals on his cheeks, his mussed hair.

            “He hit me!” James immediately accuses, finger flying out, but Keith is ready as he shakes his head, shakes the bangs back into his face and seems to make his snarl all the more severe.

            “He made fun of my parents!”

            A quiet series of gasps, as the teacher turns on James, because by now everyone knows—everyone knows Keith’s parents are gone, knows he’s been put in the foster home, knows that that’s a sensitive issue. Lance’s blood turns cold and his stomach drops, and his grip on Keith loosens slightly, and then he knows what he has to do.

            “Oh, you _asshole,_ ” he speaks up, and releases Keith.

            All three of them end up in the principal’s office, and Lance gets his mouth washed out with a bar of soap when he goes home, but he doesn’t regret a single thing.

 

**vii.**

            Keith is twelve when he fully understands what _gay_ means.

            Up to now he’s only ever heard it being tossed around as an insult in online games, used flippantly by his foster family to ridicule people. He’s never uttered the word himself—he’s uttered _ass_ and _fuck_ and _shit_ and most of those in relation to James Griffin, snickering quietly with Lance when other people weren’t looking—but never _gay._

            It’s not until he’s on a movie-and-dinner outing with Shiro and someone named Adam that he actually understands what it means.

            “This is my boyfriend,” Shiro explains lightly, and for emphasis, takes the hand of the brown man sitting next to him, who flushes and rolls his eyes behind his glasses. “It’s just like a girlfriend, except he’s a boy. …I’m gay, Keith.”

            Keith recognizes his guarded expression, recognizes the fact that Shiro’s holding his breath a little bit and Adam squeezes his hand. Then Keith thinks about everything he’s heard in the home about the word _gay_ and how it’s been used and suddenly realizes maybe home isn’t quite as comfy as before, because they think _gay_ means _bad_ but Shiro’s gay, and Shiro’s one of the most reliable people Keith knows.

            “How long have you been gay?” is what Keith responds, and Shiro laughs, and that’s how he and Keith and Adam spend an hour longer than they’re supposed to in the diner, as Shiro explains his experience, and deep inside of Keith, something clicks into place.

 

**viii.**

            _“It’s just like a girlfriend, except he’s a boy.”_

            It takes only a couple more weeks for Keith to come to the conclusion that he’s gay, too.

            He comes to the realization in the middle of a movie with the gang at Lance’s house, squished on the couch between the cushion and Lance, comes to the realization when he sees Lance wrap an arm around Allura and wiggle his eyebrows and something cold pools in his stomach, fills up the rest of him, sits ugly at his core as he realizes he wants Lance to look at him like that.

            Later on, when it’s the middle of the night and Lance falls asleep on top of him, mid-movie, and Keith realizes he’s the only one of the group still awake, the cold bleeds away and leaves nothing but warmth, hot and heavy as his face reddens, because Lance’s head is on his shoulder and Keith realizes with brutal clarity that he doesn’t want Lance to get up.

            _But Lance isn_ _’t gay,_ the little voice inside his head reminds him, and Keith remembers his foster siblings and their sneering at the term, remembers his foster mother wrinkling her nose and his foster father muttering violent things, and the cold rushes back, takes him over, leaves him shivering until he crashes.

 

**ix.**

            Keith lives with his secret for another six months and doesn’t tell a soul.

            It’s not until he sits in the Shiroganes’ kitchen with his math homework out in front of him, and Shiro sitting across from him, and Adam making dinner, while Mr. and Mrs. Shirogane go out for date night, that he blurts it, in the middle of Shiro trying to explain to him how the fractions in this problem work.

            “I think I’m gay.”

            Except there’s no thinking.

            No thinking when he blurts it, no thinking _period._ Keith is gay, plain and simple, and he watches Shiro freeze up, hears the spoon Adam pokes around the stove with squeal against the bottom of the pot of whatever, as he turns to look and Shiro raises his head.

            “I-I…,” Keith stammers for a moment, and then shakes his head. “I’m gay. I don’t _think_ I’m gay. I just am.”

            Shiro remains still only for another moment, and then gently sets down his pencil and meets Keith’s eyes. “Okay.”

            “You’re the first person—” Keith cuts himself off, flashes a look over his shoulder at Adam, amends his statement, “—well, _people_ I’ve told. You…sorta helped me realize.”

            Shiro freezes. Again. He shifts in his chair until he’s sitting back and upright and not looking at Keith anymore, but instead looking at Adam with wide eyes. And while Shiro’s already in a state of numb-shock- _Keith can_ _’t place it but it might not be that great_ , he keeps going, spills his heart all over the table, that he can’t come out in the foster home because his family doesn’t like gay people and he’s heard threats, and he can’t come out to his friends, either, because he doesn’t know how they’ll react or if they’ll want to be friends with him after that and he’s _scared._

            All the while, Shiro continues staring across the way at Adam, and he’s very good at concealing the gears turning in his head.

 

**x.**

            Keith is adopted one month of walking on eggshells later, just in time for his thirteenth birthday, and the beginning of the third month of his seventh grade year, his first year into middle school.

            When the news first breaks, a million possibilities run through Keith’s head: they’ve found his mother; it’s a family from far away, searching for miles to find the perfect son, and Keith is going to have to move away from all of his friends, away from Hunk and Allura and Shay and the Holts and Shiro and Adam and _Lance_ , the McClain family that’s taken care of him throughout the years; it’s a family just as bad, if not worse than his current foster family; it’s the foster family themselves, trying to surprise him with the news that he’s not going anywhere, that he won’t have to leave his friends, but he’ll never have a safe environment to be himself.

            He cries when Shiro and his parents walk into the room.

            He’s never cried openly in front of his foster family, but he doesn’t care because he’s never been family to them, and he’ll never have to be again. Happy tears stream down his cheeks as he runs and flings arms around Shiro’s waist and Shiro hugs him back, holds him tightly, and reassures him that everything is going to be okay. He sits in the back with Keith on the car ride home, all the way back to his parents’ house, and Keith cries harder when the lights flip on and Adam and all of his friends pop out and yell _surprise,_ and reveal a joint adoption and birthday party.

            For all of them except Lance, it’s the first Keith’s openly cried, and Lance never brings it up—just brings Keith in for the same kind of crushing hug he’s received time after time, year after year, while Keith’s stomach knots and he savors this one like it’ll be his last.

 

**xi.**

            It’s not his last.

            Keith and Lance get closer as seventh grade transforms into eighth, and then the group is suddenly preparing for high school, for being the fresh meat all over again. Lance takes it upon himself to keep everyone close, and suddenly Keith finds himself in the McClain residence at least once a week—more than that, actually, more than everyone else, save for maybe Hunk and Katie, or as Lance has dubbed them, the Space Squad.

            Keith finds security in this house, finds security in the hushed conversations between their group of four. They have more sleepovers together than they do with the rest of the group, which means more time Keith finds himself huddled up under blankets watching movies, more time laughing, more time flipping Monopoly boards and accidentally flinging Wii remotes across the room.

            More time spilling secrets.

            Keith doesn’t know how they get on the topic, but it’s one in the morning, and they’re camped out in Lance’s backyard, up in the tree house, with his telescope poking out of the window and sleeping bags unzipped and unfurled and blankets flung about and pillows everywhere, to make one giant nest. Katie speaks first, staring up at the wooden roof dotted with the same glow-in-the-dark star stickers Lance has in his room, ones he and Keith spent hours on during a secluded afternoon where Keith felt like his lungs were on fire, with how often he seemed to be holding his breath.

            “Can I tell you guys something?” she asks in the quiet.

            Keith, Lance, and Hunk glance over at her—arms folded behind her head, one leg drawn up and the other crossed and propped up with her ankle on her knee.

            “Yeah,” Keith says, when neither Hunk nor Lance speak up. “What’s up?”

            Katie makes a noise of discomfort, and then shuts her eyes and sighs. “I’m…scared. I don’t want you guys to see me differently after this…well, okay, maybe I kind of _do_ want you to see me differently. I’m…not a girl. Or…not entirely.” A harsh breath, and then, “I don’t know…I don’t know what I am, but…I don’t…feel entirely like what a girl should feel like, if that makes sense.”

            Another heartbeat of silence, and then Lance turns away from the window, turns to fully face Katie. “So what do you want us to call you then?”

            Katie sits up, rod-straight, and Hunk and Keith shift toward Lance.

            “You understand?” Katie asks, and Lance nods.

            “Yeah, yeah, of course! My siblings…well, I’m not gonna say who, but they’ve taught me about this sort of stuff before. Years ago. You want a different name, different pronouns…?” Lance trails off as he watches Katie, a tentative smile on his face.

            The answer comes almost immediately. “Pidge, and they.”

            Lance claps his hands together. “Well, alright! Pidge it is.”

            Pidge lets go of another breath and lets their legs flop back down. Then they freeze, and raise a finger. Keith and Hunk pause mid-sigh, as Pidge adds, “Oh, and also…I think I might like girls.”

            “That’s cool, too,” Hunk says this time, and Keith, emboldened, smile as them.

            “Well, I’m gay, so…welcome to the club.”

            And there it is, out in the open as easy as breathing— _and that_ _’s been so fucking hard lately, hasn’t it?_ — and a wide smile splits Pidge’s face as they reach a hand up for a high-five, and turns it into a clasp with a _hell yeah, dude,_ and then suddenly Hunk and Lance are there and Pidge is sitting up and the group is hugging, Pidge at the center, Keith close to the middle.

            “You guys are my best friends,” Lance says, voice muffled by virtue of his mouth being smushed in somewhere between Keith’s shoulder and Pidge’s head. “We’ve got each others’ backs, alright? No matter what, no matter who you are or who you love, we stick together. Nothing changes that.”

 

**xii.**

            Nothing changes that, not even high school.

            Freshman year starts, and Lance attempts to cram himself into four different sports, on top of six different clubs. He learns easily that the drama club is his favorite, and where most of his friends gravitate to. Come spring the gang learns that the drama club essentially functions as the school’s unofficial Gender & Sexualities Alliance, because the majority of the cast and crew aren’t straight or aren’t cis or both.

            Keith likes this new home almost immediately, and finds new places to hide out when he’s having a rough day, new people to confide in when Lance asks out Allura halfway through sophomore year.

            Granted, he had warning. Lance told him a week ago that he’d been trying to gather up the courage to finally go through with it, to _really, seriously_ act on the crush he’s had for years.

            “That’s what you get for having a crush on a straight guy,” Rolo remarks casually, good-naturedly as he and Keith move set pieces up from the school basement, around the back parking lot, and up to the back entrance that leads to the art wing. Keith shuts him up with one look, but Rolo knows enough, knows to keep his jabs light.

            Rolo’s one of the many drama club kids Keith’s become friends with, and practically the only one he’s talked to about his years-long crush on Lance—but not fully, never fully. As far as Rolo knows, his crush has been waning over the years, as it’s become clearer and clearer it’s not going to work out. And Keith’s okay with that, as days of Lance and Allura dating stretch into weeks, and they seem happy.

            And that’s all Keith wants, is for Lance to be happy.

            “I’ll get over it,” Keith says, balancing a wooden beam on his shoulder, while Rolo brings up the tail end. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

 

**xiii.**

            Two months later, Keith breaks the news to Lance that Rolo’s asked him out, and he’s accepted.

            One week after that, Keith and Rolo are officially dating, and three weeks later, call each other boyfriends.

            A funny feeling unfurls in Lance’s chest, there and gone before he can identify it.

 

**xiv.**

            Lance and Allura break up mutually, two weeks before junior prom.

            Keith finds out when Lance walks into the Shirogane house, because he knows the way in by now, has a car and his license now. He crashes onto Keith’s couch and pillows his head on Keith’s chest and doesn’t speak, but breathes heavily while Keith tentatively lays fingers in his hair. Tentatively starts combing, twisting strands around, wondering whatever happened to the curls Lance had in kindergarten.

            “It was for the best,” Lance finally sighs out of nowhere. “We just…it wasn’t _right,_ y’know? You’d think we’d have realized after a couple months, but I guess we both wanted to make it work, but…” Another breath out through his nose. “We’re just better off as friends.”

            Keith continues the lazy strokes of his fingers in Lance’s hair, while Lance shuts his eyes and moans against Keith’s chest, presses his face into Keith’s hoodie like it can shut out the rest of the world.

            “If it makes you feel any better,” Keith says, slowly, testing the waters, and continues when Lance doesn’t tense up, “Rolo and I broke up last month.”

            Similar situation, with a slightly different edge. Keith thought his feelings were gone, thought he’d forget if given the time, if given the right person. Maybe Rolo could’ve been that person, but hardly anything changed between them. Kissing and cuddling were awkward at best and uncomfortable at worst, and it became clear that Keith’s feelings weren’t dead—not entirely.

            _“I’m sorry,”_ Keith had said, but Rolo had held up a hand and shaken his head.

            _“Don’t be. I get it.”_

            “Really?” Lance asks, squinting and raising his head. “Dude, why didn’t you say something?”

            Keith shrug. “Wasn’t that big a deal, just wasn’t working for us.”

            “Still could’ve _done something_ ,” Lance mutters. “Could’ve had another movie night, or went to the Sports Center. Like, it didn’t even _hurt?_ Are you _sure?_ That was like, eight months’ worth of relationship.”

            Keith stops. Thinks. But he doesn’t have to, because his answer is immediate in his head and his heart, that he and Rolo both stopped feeling it very early on, and Keith isn’t sure what to identify as the reason that they went on so long. Maybe both of them longing for something they couldn’t give each other, maybe solidarity, maybe something else entirely.

            “Didn’t really hurt, no,” Keith admits quietly. “It was just…natural, I guess. Like you said about you and Allura…we wanted to make it work, but it wasn’t happening.”

            “Huh.”

            He and Lance fall back into silence, neither one particularly paying attention to the show on the TV, and they still aren’t fifteen minutes later, when Lance rolls over, crosses his arms and props his head up, and looks Keith directly in the eyes.

            “So now, we’re both out of prom dates.”

            _Oh no._

            This is dangerous. Keith can’t help the way his eyes widen and he suddenly wishes that Lance _wasn_ _’t_ sitting on him, that he _didn_ _’t_ have a hand directly over Keith’s heart no matter how unintentional the placement is, because it ramps into a gallop before he can stop it. If Lance notices he doesn’t say anything, _he probably doesn_ _’t notice_ because he’s too busy staring at Keith with a smirk tugging up the ends of his lips and his eyebrows narrowed and _oh dear God, strike me down now._

            “Yeah…?” Keith asks. “Rolo and I didn’t really plan on going in the first place, but go on…?”

            “You _what?!_ ” Lance sputters, and the smirk vanishes. “You didn’t— _it_ _’s prom!_ ”

            “Yeah, _junior prom._ We’ve still got senior prom next year,” Keith counters, and shifts and sits up in a way that forces Lance to get off of him, but Lance isn’t done. He boxes Keith into the corner of the couch, on hand on the back and one hand on the arm, fingers digging into brown fabric.

            “It’s still prom! Why didn’t you tell us?” Lance asks. “Dude, we were all planning on going as a _group_ and you didn’t even think to mention that you weren’t going? What were we supposed to do without you?”

            “You all had dates,” Keith says lightly, trying to ignore the thought that crosses his mind— _Lance has more freckles than I thought—they_ _’re like stars, almost—I could make constellations—this is not the time, Keith_. “You had Allura, Hunk has Shay, Pidge has that freshman girl, and Rachel has that other guy—what’s his name, with the hair—?”

            “And you had Rolo!” Lance insists, throwing his hands up.

            “ _He wasn_ _’t my type, okay?_ ” Keith finally shouts back, and that finally has Lance recoiling. The hurt shines in his eyes and Keith remembers a day far too many years ago to be comfortable with, a hand taken and wrenched away, Lance wondering what the hell he did wrong, and Keith scowls. Sighs. Closes his eyes and forces his voice to be quieter, softer. “It wasn’t…it was never gonna work out. He’s…a lot different from the guy I actually like.”

            _Oh_ fuck, _great job, Keith—_

            “Guy you actually like?” Lance asks, and Keith saw that coming, it was inevitable, and he’s so genuinely confused that Keith wants to laugh, wants to kiss the stupid, oblivious mouth just a foot away from his and say _you, moron,_ but he doesn’t. His face reddens and he looks up at the floor and says, “It doesn’t matter, the guy’s straight. I’ve gotta learn to get over him.”

            And stupid, oblivious, beautiful Lance, who’s only gotten prettier as the years have passed, physique catching up with his soul, just shakes his head and _tsks_ and finally pulls back and gives Keith breathing room and says, “Well, whoever he is, he’s missing out. You’re a real catch, Mullet.”

 

**xv.**

            They end up at prom together.

            “This is a platonic date,” Keith had emphasized, if only to protect his heart, but finds that increasingly hard to do as the night progresses, and the DJ _insists_ upon playing slow songs that fracture their group down to pairs.

            Keith finds himself somewhere in the middle of the crowded dance floor with one hand clasped around Lance’s and the other draped loosely over one of Lance’s shoulders as Lance leads them, swaying, twirling in a slow circle, and for the most part, the night…hasn’t been awful. It’s actually been _fun,_ with the whole group together. Any hard feelings that might’ve lingered between Lance and Allura dissolved, and the group fell in easily, and allowed the knot in Keith’s chest to slowly unwind.

            Lance took it upon himself to play the role of _perfect gentleman,_ despite Keith’s insistence he didn’t have to. Platonic date or otherwise, Lance wanted to make sure Keith had the time of his life, _one that that other guy would really have to fight to compete with for senior prom._ And for Lance, that included selfies and ridiculousness with his food during dinner and an arm almost constantly on Keith, be it his waist or shoulder.

            _I_ _’m going to die,_ Keith’s thought several times over the course of the night. _Cause of death: Lance McClain._

            Lance’s hand is firm on his waist—or was, because it _started there_ , and Keith doesn’t even remember when it snaked all the way around his back, when their bodies came pressed together, just knows that if this were elementary school or middle school they’d be yelled at for being far too close. A wildfire ignites in Keith’s chest and spreads through the rest of him.

            It emboldens him just enough to wrap his arm all the way around Lance’s neck, emboldens him enough to lean their foreheads together and close his eyes, emboldens him to pretend that they’re boyfriends, that Keith was always the person Lance asked to prom in the first place.

            “This is nice,” Keith whispers.

            “Yeah,” Lance replies, barest trace of hollowness in his voice, but Keith detects it and the fire burns out, and he remembers that no matter what, it will never go beyond this.

            So Keith doesn’t kiss him.

 

**xvi.**

            “Can I tell you something?”

            Lance whispers it in the dark of his living room, hours after his seventeenth birthday party has ended, when it’s just him and the gang, and his parents have long since gone upstairs. He waits for responses, for shifting sleeping bags and quiet _yeahs_ and _what_ _’s ups_ and _what_ _’s on your minds._

            Keith slowly sits up, lets the throw blanket that Lance let him take slip down his shoulders and pool at his waist. The only movement in the room, and Lance’s eyes flit to him. Keith meets his gaze and holds it, even as Lance makes no move from his reclining position.

            “You alright?” Keith asks.

            “I’m bi.”

            One of Lance’s hands flies to his mouth immediately after, and that’s how Keith knows he hadn’t meant to come right out of the gate with it. His other hand covers up his eyes, and he groans and rolls over, presses his face into his pillow. Keith frowns, scoots over until he’s right next to Lance, until their feet are touching and Lance peers up at him just slightly.

            Even in the dark, the flush on his cheeks stands out prominently.

            “How long have you known?” Keith asks.

            Lance lifts his head away from the pillow, opens his mouth to answer. Shuts it and looks at the others and frowns, and then sucks in a breath, rises to his feet, and offers a hand to Keith to help him up, too. He doesn’t let go even when Keith’s on his feet, and instead quietly pulls Keith through the house, out the back door, and into the backyard.

            By then, Keith knows where they’re going.

            He follows Lance up the splintering wooden ladder into the treehouse, where Lance places himself against a wall and draws his knees to his chest, while Keith sits criss-cross in front of him, a careful distance away. Far enough for Lance to gather his bearings, far enough that he can breathe, far enough that he can run if he feels the need. But Lance isn’t Keith—the urge to run never crosses his mind as he levels eyes at the dark-haired boy he grew up with.

            “I’ve known for over a year,” Lance finally says, dragging a hand through his hair. “I—I sort of realized. During sophomore year. And then I didn’t want to think about it so I just…sort of set it aside. But then this past year…I couldn’t keep ignoring it. I think I came to terms with it…what, in January?” He squints at the ceiling and mutters things to himself too quiet for Keith to hear, and then nods. “Yeah, January.”

            January. A solid month before junior prom.

            “Who else knows?” Keith keeps his voice quiet, unwilling to scare Lance off, but Lance just shrugs.

            “Rachel. She knew first. She’s the one who’s been helping me with it, and as far as I know, she hasn’t told anyone.” Lance casts a longing look at the wall, in the direction of his house. “You’re the only other one. I planned on telling everyone tonight, but as you can see—” He spreads his palms, “—that didn’t go down like I wanted it to.”

            Lance leans his head back and lets it thud gently against the wood of the wall, crosses his arms at the wrists and props them up on his legs. Keith waits for him to keep speaking, because Lance sets his jaw in the way that Keith knows more words simmer below the surface, but they never make it past his lips.

            So Keith takes it upon himself to keep the conversation going.

            “I’m glad you at least told me,” he says. “And this doesn’t change anything, alright? You’re still Lance. You’re still my best friend.”

            “Good,” the words escape Lance in an exhale, and then a beat, and then: “Y’wanna just sleep up here the rest of the night?”

            Without a note to the others to inform them where they’ve gone, Keith and Lance remain in the treehouse, and Keith wakes up that morning with his head on Lance’s shoulder, and Lance’s head on his. Lance still snores, fast asleep, and Keith looks down and finds their hands have inexplicably intertwined in the middle of the night. Keith can’t remember who fell asleep first, whether this was his doing or Lance’s, just knows that he’s not going to be the first to let go.

 

**xvii.**

            Keith is there when he comes out to the rest of the group, there when he comes out to the rest of his family, _there_ the rest of the summer.

            “Maybe I like having you around!” Lance says defensively, when Keith asks how he keeps ending up in the McClain residence. On this particular day, they’re in Lance’s living room, house to themselves while the rest of his family is out. Keith leans back, halfway over the arm of the couch, stretching out his legs in front of him and tangling them with Lance’s.

            The words spear through Keith’s heart, and so do his next ones.

            “I honestly don’t know what I’m gonna do without you in college.”

            Keith furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

            “C’mon, Keith, don’t tell me you’re serious.” Lance pushes at one of Keith’s feet with his own, and Keith pushes back until they’re pressed flat against each others’, forming a bridge over the couch. “College. Next year? Big scary thing we have to do applications for? Literally the beginning of our futures? The likelihood we end up in the same college is slim to none, so we’re basically not gonna see each other except breaks and maybe weekends, and even then it’s gonna be _busy_ between holidays and travel and so that’s even less time together—”

            “Who said we’re not going to the same college?” Keith interrupts. “Where are you even applying?”

            Lance grows quiet. He drops his eyes away from Keith and stares at his lap, lets his foot drop down and lets Keith’s leg crash on top of his.

            “I…I _want_ to go to Arus,” Lance says, but Keith’s known that. Arus has been his dream school all through high school, his end goal the Garrison Program for Aerospace Engineering. “I just…don’t think my grades’ll be good enough. I’m gonna apply to Galra U and Dos Santos & Montgomery, too, and I’ll probably end up going to one of those schools. Arus…that’s like, a dream. Literally. Because it won’t happen.”

            Lance’s face pinches in frustration, and he balls himself up, extricates his legs from the mess they’re in with Keith’s and wraps his arms around them and settles his chin. Keith lets him take his time as silence fall over the room again, as Lance sighs, deep from his chest, and leans further back into the blue cushions of the couch.

            “Not with that attitude,” Keith finally says, and his voice comes out a little sharper than he meant, but he’s not taking it back as he leans forward, tucks his legs underneath himself so he’s on his knees. “Lance, you’re in the top _ten_ —”

            “Yeah, and you and Hunk and Pidge are all top five! _Top three!_ Arus likes people like _you_ , all the valedictorians and whatever!” Lance’s voice rises to a shout. “Plus, _you_ should have nothing to worry about! You’ll be a legacy student! You’re gonna get in and get a scholarship and make all these cool friends because you _always do._ Because you’re the great _Keith Kogane_ , and I’m—I’m _Lance!_ I’m just Lance! The fucking boy from Cuba who can’t—”

            Lance’s mouth runs too fast for his brain. His voice catches and shatters and he ducks his head, yanks the hood of his sweatshirt over himself so Keith can’t see him, can’t hear him when he gasps and the gasp transforms into a sob.

            “I can’t do _anything_.”

            Keith’s seen Lance cry before—seen him injure himself, had to patch him up with band-aids from getting too into his adventures around the neighborhood, had to wrap the occasional random injury from play rehearsal, seen him cry over a bad grade and over cheesy movies and over practically-ancient relatives passing on, but this is new. This sound is wet and deep and Lance shakes, full-body. His knuckles turn white as he holds into his hood in the hopes Keith will stay away, but Keith has never been able to stay away. Not from the boy who made it an effort to draw him in in the first place.

            “Oh, God, _Lance_ ,” Keith mutters, and scoots all the way up to him, throws arms around Lance’s back and draws him into his chest. He runs a hand, up and down, along the column of Lance’s spine, in what he hopes are soothing strokes. “Let it out, ba— _buddy._ Let it out, bud.”

            Keith holds him for twenty-seven minutes, according to the clock on the cable box next to the TV. Keith holds him while he cries until he can’t cry anymore, holds him when he draws back, holds him when he mutters, “You have no idea how jealous I’ve been of you.”

            “ _What?_ Are you serious?”

            Keith stares, unsure of how to process this while Lance drags a sleeve over his eyes. “Yeah? You’re—you’re _smart,_ and you’re _talented_ , and you’ve got—” Lance fumbles for words for a second before grabbing Keith’s bicep. “— _these_ , and you don’t even have to _try_ , and it seems like no matter what _I_ do—”

            “No, no, no, stop, shut up,” Keith interrupts, and grabs Lance’s cheeks, if only to get him to stop moving and actually look at him. “None of that. Listen to me. You listening?”

            Lance freezes. His eyes bore into Keith’s, lips parted slightly, and then he nods, seemingly dazed.

            It takes everything in Keith to suppress the urge to lean in and kiss him right there.

            “Stop comparing yourself to people,” is what he says instead. “You—you’re—” _So worthy of love, so beautiful, the best of us,_ “— _you,_ and that’s not a bad thing, Lance. You’re talented, too, so stop selling yourself short. You _try_ and _that_ _’s_ what colleges wanna see, someone who’s got passion and who chases his dreams and goes after them even when they might seem unattainable, which, they’re _not._ Maybe you’re not the best at math or science but you’re intelligent in different ways, and you…you’re _alive,_ Lance. A-and stop…stop comparing yourself to _me,_ because…” _I_ _’ve only ever been in awe of you._ “We’re best friends, alright? Equals. Lance _and_ Keith. And God, I wish you’d _told_ me so I could’ve slapped some sense into you earlier!”

            While Keith speaks, Lance cries. Tears well up and spill over, cut lines down his cheeks, and he’s quiet. He sniffles and swallows down the gasps and sobs that bubble up, never interrupts. He shivers, and when Keith stops speaking, he finally drops his gaze away, as Keith pulls him back into another hug.

            “You still with me?” Keith mutters.

            “Mmm,” Lance manages.

            Keith shuts his eyes. “Good. No more secrets, okay?”

            He doesn’t mean to say it. The thought was fleeting, never meant to make it out of his mouth, but now the words hang in the air and Keith just holds onto Lance tighter, because that’s a promise he knows he’ll break—has already broken. He bites his lip as Lance hesitates—makes a noise in the back of his throat—and finally brings his arms around Keith, deflates and settles his chin into the crook between Keith’s shoulder and neck.

            “No more secrets,” he agrees, voice hoarse.

 

**xviii.**

            Keith is seventeen when he experiences the second most devastating day of his life.

            History has a funny way of repeating itself. Keith remembers that first time well—the cloudless blue sky stretching in all directions as he played around in the McClains’ backyard with the others. The same cloudless blue is there a week into senior year, as Keith and Lance sprawl out in the treehouse with textbooks scattered around them, Calculus open in front of them.

            When he was a kid, Keith had a concept of time, only because he knew he wasn’t supposed to overstay his welcome, and he memorized the time his dad was supposed to come pick him up. But now, with a license and his own car and twelve years of friendship under his belt, Keith loses track of the hour, as the sun travels across the sky. It’s not until the sun peers through the window with the same old telescope from when they were kids and hits Keith squarely in the eyes does he realize how late it’s gotten. He flips over his phone, face-down on the floor since he and Lance climbed up here hours ago, and finds that it’s already six in the afternoon.

            “Oh, jeez,” Keith mutters, and Lance lifts his head, from where it’s been resting for the last thirty minutes on Keith’s stomach; lowers his phone, and winces at the sound of Flappy Bird hitting a pipe and falling to his demise.

            “You alright?”

            “Yeah, I’m—I didn’t realize it was this _late_ ,” Keith says, and drags his other hand down his face, while Lance shrugs.

            “So? Stay for dinner,” he offers. “My mom’s making—”

            A ring from Keith’s phone cuts them both off. Keith lifts it back up and looks at the caller ID, expecting Shiro or one of their parents, but his eyebrows furrow when Adam’s contact photo stares back at him.

            “Adam?” Keith mutters.

            Lance sits up and gives Keith the space to do the same, as he picks up the phone.

            Lance never hears what Adam has to say. Just knows that Keith’s _hello_ gets interrupted, and he freezes. Blanches. His face goes slack, and the phone nearly slips out of his hands. His eyes glaze over as he begins shaking, begins muttering _no_ over and over.

            “Keith?” Lance asks, but Keith’s hand flies up automatically, and Lance silences himself. Watches carefully as Keith makes himself nod, as a single tear breaks free and slides down his face.

            “I’m on my way,” Keith croaks out. “Yeah. Love you too.”

            He hangs up the phone and tries to get moving, but his eyes sweep over the textbooks and something shatters in his chest, and suddenly Keith is on his knees and gasping for breath.

            “Keith!”

            Lance is on him in a second, one hand on his back and the other reaching around him to pull him upright as Keith lets out something that sounds halfway between a sob and a scream, and then he collapses into Lance’s arms and begins babbling. Lance catches the important words—specifically _Shiro_ and _parents_ and _accident_ and _hospital_ and _please_ and _not again_.

            _Oh God._

            Despite the September heat, cold sweeps over Lance.

            “Alright, alright, listen to me, you with me?” Lance says, and continues on when Keith nods. “Forget the textbooks. You got your keys?” Another nod. “Give ‘em to me, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

            Keith’s head snaps up, mouth open and ready with a protest, but Lance shuts him up with a single look. “I’m not letting you drive like this. Just trust me.”

            _Just trust me._

            Asking Keith to trust Lance is like asking him to breathe.

            Lance helps him out of the treehouse, textbooks abandoned. As soon as they hit the ground, Lance slides a hand into Keith’s and squeezes, leads him to the red Jeep sitting in the driveway and ushers him into the passenger seat, and then runs around the front and climbs into the driver’s seat. The engine rumbles to life as soon as Lance turns the keys in the ignition, and he keeps the radio off as he backs out of the driveway and tears down the street, pushing the speed limit.

            “Keith,” Lance says, as Keith stifles his sobs with a hand over his mouth, and flicks his eyes to him, meets his gaze for half a second and then returns his attention to the road, “it’s okay. Let it out.”

            Lance says it’s okay, so it must be, and Keith openly cries, borderline screams the whole way to the emergency room, while Lance’s heart climbs into his throat.

            Keith stumbles and almost falls when he gets out of the car, would’ve hit the pavement if Lance hadn’t rushed around just in time to catch him. He throws one of Keith’s arms over his shoulders and slides a hand around his waist and stays there to keep him steady, as they head into the waiting room. Adam’s already there, stands up when the pair of them comes through the door, and Lance lets Keith go long enough for him to collapse into his brother’s fiancé’s arms.

            Adam catches Lance’s eyes and doesn’t ask him to leave, so Lance doesn’t.

            He only steps out momentarily to call his mother and let her know where he’s gone off to, tells her he may or may not be home later, and then walks back in to find Adam and Keith have moved to a row of chairs. Lance hesitantly sits down in the open one on Keith’s right, and drops an arm across the back of Keith’s chair. Keith almost automatically slumps over, head on Lance’s shoulder, and stares despondently at the wall across from them.

            It’s hours before a doctor comes out looking for an Adam Wright and a Keith Kogane. And no matter how hard Keith might be quaking, no matter how many times he whispers _no, please,_ Lance knows what’s coming, braces himself for the collapse.

            He watches Adam’s expression go carefully blank, watches Keith’s shatter.

            Keith is seventeen years old when he receives the news that his parents are dead and sobs hysterically into Lance McClain’s arms.

 

**xix.**

            He doesn’t miss school, as much as he wants to.

            “You have to go to school, Keith,” Adam tells him Sunday night, hair flung in odd directions and bags under his eyes and obvious smudges on his glasses that he hasn’t had time to wipe away. “You do it for them, okay? You have to keep your grades up.”

            _You have to keep them up for college, so you can get accepted somewhere, so you can get a scholarship._ Keith understands the words Adam doesn’t say, and something miserable opens up inside of him, a chasm swallowing all of his joy and all of his fire. He can’t bring himself to argue, not when Adam’s been back and forth between the hospital and the empty Shirogane house and the morgue.

            “If Shiro comes home and finds out you slacked off and threw away your future, he’ll kick your ass, and then he’ll kick mine,” Adam continues on, a weak attempt at being light, but the mention of his brother only makes the chasm grow wider, as Keith thinks about him in the hospital bed, post-surgery, with the bandages around the stump that was his right arm.

            “Fine,” he mumbles into his pillow, only because he remembers what the Shiroganes did for him years back, rescuing him from the foster home and welcoming him into their own, taking on another mouth to feed and salvaging his future in the first place.

            He raises his head to look at Adam, eyes narrowed, still wet. “But you need to start sleeping and get your shit together, too.”

 

**xx.**

            Lance’s home has always been open for Keith, and that’s where Keith finds himself most nights.

            The Shirogane house is empty—Adam’s always back at the apartment he shares with Shiro, or in the hospital waiting room, or at Shiro’s bedside, or out and about running errands and talking to doctors and lawyers and a whole bunch of people Keith loses track of; Keith can’t stay in his parents’ house alone, knowing they’re never coming back, knowing he’ll lose his mind in the silence.

            “We aren’t having a funeral until Shiro’s out of the hospital,” Keith whispers, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to Lance’s ceiling, one of Lance’s arms acting as a pillow underneath his neck, Lance’s cheek rubbing up against his own. “We still don’t have an estimate on how long that’s gonna be, and then…after that, Shiro needs to look into a prosthetic arm, and then there’s rehab…I don’t know how I’m going to afford college, or if I should even _go._ ”

            Lance leans over slightly, but Keith doesn’t move. He keeps his eyes up, roving over the constellations that their younger selves tried to replicate from some astronomy book Lance had borrowed from the library.

            “I can’t tell you what to do,” Lance says quietly, “but I think…they’d want you to at least _try_. You’re the top of our class, Keith. You’ve…you’ve worked your ass off to get here. If anyone deserves to go to college, it’s you.”

 

**xxi.**

            So Keith tries, and his friends rally around him.

            They schedule group sessions, for doing college applications together—in the library during study halls, in someone’s house, in the back booth at the local diner. It’s in this booth, with Lance next to him, and Hunk and Pidge too busy, bent over their own laptops, that he nudges Lance’s shoulder when Lance nudges him, and they look at each other, look at their screens, at their completed applications for Arus University’s Garrison Program.

            “On three,” Lance says, fingers shaking slightly where they rest on his trackpad.

            “One,” Keith counts off.

            “Two,” Lance replies.

            “Three.” And in unison, they apply. Release breaths. Sink back into leather seats, while under the table, Lance twines their hands. It’s the most natural thing in the world, and Keith’s heart goes supernova, pounds and sends his blood thrumming, because it suddenly occurs to him that he doesn’t know what he’ll do if one gets in and the other doesn’t, doesn’t know what he’ll do if he can’t spend the next four years with Lance, and the years beyond those.

            Then he realizes he doesn’t know what tomorrow’s gonna bring, and shoves down his panic, and savors the feeling of Lance’s hand in his.

            He doesn’t notice Hunk and Pidge trade glances across the table.

 

**xxii.**

            The funeral takes place on a cold, rainy, miserable Tuesday in November, almost exactly two months after the accident. That’s how long it takes for Shiro to get out of the hospital, how long it takes to get things organized with doctors, how long it takes to get his prosthetic, how long it takes to sort out the living situations now, how long it takes to talk to lawyers and dig up his parents’ wills.

            Keith stands underneath an umbrella in the cemetery, crowded between Shiro and Adam, Shiro’s arm around his shoulders and Adam’s arm around Shiro, as the caskets get lowered into their graves, as the priest says parting words, gives final blessings. They stay long after most of the funeral procession’s departed for the reception at one of the local restaurants.

            Adam holds both of them up, prevents them from crashing to their knees in the mud as they sob anew, like they haven’t cried hard enough before. He keeps them both steady when they finally tear themselves away from the Shirogane graves, and make the short walk to Tex Kogane’s grave, while Keith cries harder, wails out loud and can’t bring himself to feel shame for it, can’t bring himself to be quiet. He lets the living and the dead hear him weep and practically collapses on his father’s stone.

            Shiro carries him piggyback-style back to the limo, because he doesn’t trust Keith to get himself there.

            Keith remains quiet all through the reception dinner. When it comes down to making a speech, for the small group gathered, Shiro goes first. Keith tries to follow up—really, he does—but can’t get more than two words out before his voice cracks and the tears break free _again_ , and for the first time Keith wonders how he has so many left in him to cry.

            He on-and-off cries through the rest of the reception, in the car ride home, and barely stops long enough to get himself to change out of his suit, into a t-shirt and jeans, and climb back into his Jeep. His vision is blurry the entire drive to Lance’s house, is blurry when he knocks on the door and Lance opens it and automatically envelopes Keith in his arms.

            They hole up on Lance’s bed like they’ve done a million times since they were kids, and Lance holds him close, runs fingers through his hair and teases him about his mullet, and then launches into his stories of the school day. Keith listens without interrupting, and Lance tells him about their disaster of a Physics lesson, their Psych teacher’s strange love for Bruno Mars, the shitty school lunch they had, anything and everything, every nook and cranny of his day.

            Keith’s eyelids grow heavy, the longer Lance talks, and he lets his voice guide him into sleep, the first deep sleep he’s gotten in weeks.

 

**xxiii.**

            As seniors, Keith and Lance earn positions, in charge of the drama club and crew, after dedicating the previous three years of their lives to the groups. They were officially handed down at Initiation during the musical last spring, and along with their responsibilities came a hiding spot—the back corner of their wood closet, the closet that houses set pieces and props and costumes and wires and tools and anything and everything to get them through a show in one piece. This corner’s dusty and only ever sees two souls a year, hidden away by set pieces long deemed unsafe for use, pieces the club’s been too lazy to get rid of.

            When the show opens in a few weeks, they’re supposed to come to this spot and meditate, while the rest of the cast and crew scramble to finish doing makeup, and then take positions on stage before curtain. Until then, they have free reign to use it for whatever, and as rehearsals get longer and more painful, they come back here more often—to talk, to breathe.

            On this particular day, Keith finds Lance having a mental breakdown.

            “Has anyone seen McClain?” the muttering had begun. “He’s on in ten pages and I have no idea where he is.”

            Keith knew. Came right here.

            “Hey, hey,” Keith whispers, when he spots Lance sitting on the table, digging his fingers into his arms and shaking. Keith grasps his wrists and tugs them away, and Lance leans forward, until Keith has him cradled against his chest. “Breathe for me, Lance.”

            Lance tries to breathe, and coughs a couple times before he gets it right—deep, in and out, and Keith keeps a steadying hand pressed to his back, molded to fit the curve of his spine.

            “That’s it,” Keith murmurs encouragingly. “Talk to me, Starboy.”

            His nickname for Lance, his and his only. Lance thinks it’s because of his obsession with space, thinks it’s because he wants to go into Aerospace Engineering and astronomy. He doesn’t know it’s for the star fields across the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, the galaxies splattered all over his shoulders. He doesn’t know it’s for one of the traits about himself he likes the least, one of the ones Keith loves the most.

            “I’m so fucking stressed,” Lance mutters into Keith’s shirt. “I can’t—between school, and this, and—”

            “Hey,” Keith interrupts, “it’s gonna be okay. You _can_ do it. You’re Lance McClain. Nothing stops you, and this isn’t gonna stop you either.” Keith moves back, pushes Lance’s chin up with his fingers until Lance looks him in the eyes. “You hear me? You’ve got this. And you’ve got me.”

            _This would be a very bad time to kiss him,_ Keith thinks, and just for a moment, lets his eyes drift to Lance’s lips, and then forces them back up, while Lance smiles, blinks away his tears, wraps hands around Keith’s wrists.

            “Thanks, Mullet. And you’ve got me, too.”

 

**xxiv.**

            They meet up in their corner again and again—quick stops to reassure each other that they’re okay, things’ll be fine, the show will go on no matter what; no matter how agitated their director gets, no matter how incompetent and flippant about things some of the underclassmen are, anything and everything.

            Today, it’s to patch a wrist injury.

            “Sit,” Lance instructs, and propping the first aid kit precariously on one of the boards, while Keith sits on the edge of the table and sticks his wrist out. Lance gets to work, cleaning up some of the blood from the scrapes Keith earned when he tripped and fell underneath the weight of a beam. The disinfectant stings, is cold against Keith’s skin, and he flinches, hisses.

            Lance lifts his eyebrows. “Really?”

            “ _Yes?_ ” Keith replies.

            “Didn’t think Mr. Tough Guy over here would have an issue with this.”

            He laughs to himself while Keith rolls his eyes, despite the smile tugging up the ends of his mouth. Lance places the disinfectant back in the kit and wipes away the rest of the dirt and grime, and then sets to work wrapping gauze around the injury, quick and precise, like he’s done this before. Keith watches, skin buzzing in every place Lance’s fingers accidentally come into contact.

            “Wiggle your fingers for me,” Lance says, and snaps Keith from his stupor. He does as told, Lance’s smile widening. “Your circulation okay? Anything too tight?”

            “I’m _fine,_ Doctor Lance,” Keith replies. “Thanks.”

            “Well, you’re quite welcome, Patient Mullet,” Lance says, and tapes the end of the gauze to hold it in place. He sets the tape down but doesn’t let go of Keith, as his hand slides from Keith’s wrist to his fingers. Then he bows, as much as the space will allow him, and kisses Keith’s knuckles.

            Keith makes a noise in the back of his throat, loud and sudden enough that he jerks back, draws himself all the way onto the table while Lance stumbles into one of the old set pieces.

            “Shit— _shit,_ sorry, did I—”

            _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_ Keith’s brain screeches, as Lance’s wide eyes land on him. Lance’s train of thought must look very similar, and Keith fumbles as he tries to think of a way to pull the brakes.

            “No, no,” Keith says, “no, Lance, you’re fine—my wrist just—still hurts.”

            Actually, no it doesn’t—Keith doubts it was ever sprained in the first place, but liked the attention, liked— _likes_ —Lance taking care of him, and couldn’t bring himself to protest when Lance brought him back here, insisting he wrap it for Keith.

            “A-Are you s—”

            “Positive.”

            Keith stares insistently at Lance until Lance nods and runs a hand through his hair, then sticks the same hand out and offers it to Keith to help him off the table. He pointedly takes Keith’s good hand, and doesn’t let go, not until they’re back out in the hallway, where Lance splits off to return to the stage, and Keith heads back out toward the entrance to the school basement.

 

**xxv.**

            Meditation on the final night of the play brings them back to their corner.

            Tonight, unlike the past two nights, Lance takes Keith’s hand and holds it and squeezes it, doesn’t let go for a long time—not until a voice, somewhere down the hall, yells that there’s ten minutes to curtain.

            “You’ve gotta get out there,” Keith whispers, breaks up the silence, and Lance lifts his head, opens his eyes and looks at him.

            Then he sweeps Keith into a hug.

            “One last time,” Lance mutters, and Keith swats him before he returns the hug in earnest, arms tight around Lance’s back.

            “Save the sap for the musical. Especially if you’re gonna quote Hamilton.”

            Lance laughs, releases Keith and hurries out into the hall, while Keith remains behind, tracing a finger through the dust on the furthest corner of the table. This is his last fall show in this club—last play. Last calm before the storm that is musical season.

            But not his last night here with Lance.

            Keith squares his shoulders, picks up his head, and walks back out into the hall and pretends like the thought of Lance isn’t enough to get his blood pumping. He hangs out backstage, watches the show in bits and pieces as he peaks into the wings every so often, greets Lance every time he’s off and on a break, sits with him and Hunk and Pidge in the choir room that doubles as their dressing room and cracks quiet jokes, basks in the feel of Lance casually leaning up against him, ignores the pointed looks Pidge and Hunk give them.

            As it’s the last night, it’s senior flower night, a years-old tradition where the cast remains on stage after bows, joined by the crew, as the underclassmen read speeches and give flowers to their departing seniors and the directors. When the show draws to a close, Keith watches bows from the wings, decked out in black from head to toe, and emerges on the stage when the cast motions for crew to join them.

            Lance’s eyes meet Keith’s from all the way across the stage, and Keith weaves through bodies, until Lance’s hand shoots out and wraps around his wrist and pulls him in, until he’s close enough that Lance can fling his arm over his shoulders. Hunk watches them from Lance’s other side, shoots Keith that _same fucking look_ , while Pidge jogs up the steps on the side of the stage, joining them from all the way at the back of the auditorium, from light and sound.

            They squeeze in on Keith’s left, grinning, trade looks with Hunk.

            Lance doesn’t even seem to notice.

            He’s too busy smiling as another one of the seniors takes up a mic and begins the ceremony, so Keith tunes Pidge and Hunk out, too, and relishes Lance’s arm around him, the spotlights warming them both.

 

**xxvi.**

            Hell Week being over does not mean a decrease in stress.

            Final college application deadlines do not mean a decrease in stress.

            Christmas rolls around, and for the most part, it’s quiet, more mournful this year than any other year Keith can remember. The Shirogane house used to be alive, but not this year. The Christmas tree glows in the corner, and various other of their less-tedious decorations adorn other parts of the house, and Keith and Shiro and Adam trade small gifts. They were too busy for big things, for numerous things, and that’s okay with Keith, because still having a family—it’s a better gift than he received those few years in the foster home.

            Shiro and Adam sold their apartment, for a sum of money that wasn’t overly-huge, but it was enough. Adam moved in with Keith and Shiro, to fill the space in their empty house. At the moment they share Shiro’s room, and leave the guest room open, leave their parents’ room untouched. They cleared it out of belongings, dealt with whatever was outlined in the will, and then shut the door, and nobody’s opened it since then.

            It’s weird, to not use a room they’re paying for, but Keith has no plans to go in there, and neither does Shiro, so Keith supposes it’s okay. He thinks it might be weirder for his brother to suddenly move into their parents’ room. Even though his role doubles now, as brother and single parent, Keith prefers knowing Shiro’s next door, and at least he’s not going anywhere—not anytime soon, and not after Keith nearly lost him.

            A knock at the door draws Keith out of his thoughts, and breaks up Shiro and Adam’s quiet watch-through of _A Christmas Story_ —tradition for Shiro to keep it on the TV from dawn to dusk on Christmas Day, usually as background noise, and only occasionally for actual watching.

            The three of them turn to look at each other, bewildered.

            “Did…anyone invite people over?” Shiro asks.

            “No,” Adam says, while Keith shakes his head, and then jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the entryway.

            “I can go see who it is.”

            He gets up before Adam or Shiro can offer in his place; he’ll let them cuddle in peace. He peers out one of the two windows that flank the front door, and comes face-to-face with a smiling McClain. Namely, Lance.

            “What are you doing here?” tumbles out of Keith’s mouth instead of a _hey_ or _how are you doing_ or _come on in_. He flushes almost immediately, but Lance keeps smiling, enters the house when Keith steps aside, stands face-to-face with him in the small entryway lined with shoes and coats.

            “I came to see you,” Lance says, and it’s so matter-of-fact that it knocks the wind out of Keith and he reaches a hand behind him, gropes for the wall to steady himself, and brushes it off like he’s trying to lean back, casual and cool. “Plus, I brought some food.”

            He hefts several tupperware containers full of foods, some Keith can identify, others he’ll need to look closer at. There have to be at least five, all densely packed, and suddenly Keith regains his sense of hospitality.

            “Let me take some of those, they have to be heavy. Is this all from last night?” Keith asks, and takes half the stack into his arms and starts for the kitchen without waiting for an answer. Lance kicks off his shoes and follows, still in his coat and scarf and gloves, and nods toward Shiro and Adam as he walks by.

            “Yeah,” Lance calls after him, and settles into a chair at the end of the counter as Keith spreads everything out and begins peeling lids off, inspecting everything Lance brought. “All of us are gonna be sick of leftovers in two days, and then those would just sit for a week before we had to get rid of them. Figured I’d bring them here.” He glances back at the living room, and then turns toward Keith again and drops his voice. “Everything okay?”

            Keith slides into the seat across from Lance while Lance shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair, tugs off his gloves and scarf and piles them up in front of him.

            “About as okay as it can be,” Keith answers, when Lance returns his full attention. They both lean forward, eyes level with each others’. “It’s…weird, this year. Really quiet. It’s gonna be some time before we really adjust.” Keith drops his gaze to the granite. “I just…I keep waiting for them to walk downstairs, or come out of the kitchen, all dressed up and smiling and…it doesn’t happen.”

            His hands, folded and propped on the counter, tighten, fingers digging into the skin on the back of his hands. At his first sharp breath, warmer hands wrap around his own, and his head snaps up; Lance smiles at him, soft and sad.

            “It’s gonna be alright,” he says, quiet. “You said it yourself, it’s gonna take time. But I’m not gonna let you cry on Christmas. C’mere.”

            In all actuality, Lance is the one who comes to him. He lets go of him only long enough to get up and walk around to the other side of the counter and pull Keith off of the chair and into his arms. Keith presses the lower half of his face into Lance’s shoulder, settles his nose in the slope of Lance’s neck, sniffles and closes his eyes and squeezes out the tears gathered at their corners. They stain the collar of Lance’s shirt, after they slide down his face and drip from his cheeks, but somehow, Keith gets the feeling Lance doesn’t mind as he rubs circles into Keith’s back.

            “They’d wanna see you smile today,” Lance whispers. “I wanna see you smile, too. It distracts from the mullet.”

            Keith snorts, heat spreading through him from the center of his chest while Lance hums. “There he is.”

            Keith invites Lance to stay the rest of the day, and he does. They coax Adam and Shiro into several rounds of Mario Kart (and Shiro reigns supreme, because _Rainbow Road is mine, Keith, maybe next time_ ), eat a lunch made from Lance’s leftovers (leagues better than the takeout they’d planned on getting), and spend the rest of the day trading advice and school stories, once Shiro and Adam bring up college, just a little over half a year away.

            Lance stays by Keith’s side the whole time; it’s the closest he’s ever been, arms snaking around Keith’s waist, draped over his shoulder; hands intertwining; a head on Keith’s shoulder, Keith’s head on his. Any time Keith questions why he’s not at home on Christmas Day, Lance brushes him off— _Nochebuena was last night, we_ _’re really not doing much today, half of my siblings left already, anyway._ And it’s good enough, allows Keith to relax into the arm Lance has around him now, as the group gathers to watch _It_ _’s a Wonderful Life_ together.

            Together, with Adam holding Shiro, and Lance holding Keith, and the Christmas tree bathing the room in a soft glow as the sky darkens outside.

            Keith doesn’t remember any of them falling asleep, but when he wakes in the middle of the night, he finds Lance still holding him, and Adam and Shiro wiped out on top of each other, and for the first time realizes that this is what _home_ really feels like—what he wants it to look like. Tries to picture Lance not there and decides that that’s not quite right; Lance completes it.

            _But he_ _’ll never like you like that._

            Exhausted, unwilling to move, Keith ignores that thought, and snuggles closer to Lance, shuts his eyes, and lets unconsciousness crash over him again.

 

**xxvii.**

            New Year's Eve happens at Allura’s oversized house-basically-mansion, with guests Keith barely knows, because her father’s got tons of friends and the room to host them all. The gang claims a den for themselves—Allura keeps sliding doors shut to give them the privacy that seniors in high school require, and then it’s just them and their games; Allura, Rachel, Shay, Hunk, Pidge, Keith, and Lance, plus six other seniors from the high school across town, kids of Allura’s father’s friends. Their names are Romelle, Lotor, Acxa, Ezor, Zethrid, and Narti; Romelle and Lotor both squish in near Allura as the group circles up, while the other four stay closer to each other.

            Lance doesn’t sit near Allura. Doesn’t sit near Romelle, pretty and blonde and on the same wavelength as Hunk a scary amount of the time. Doesn’t even try to sit next to his twin sister.

            He makes Hunk scoot over and sandwiches himself between him and Keith, and flashes them both a wide, sunny smile. He’s oblivious to the look Hunk shoots at Pidge, sitting on his other side, but Keith’s not. His stomach turns over itself, and it’s not…it’s not pleasant, but it’s not unpleasant, either. Keith can’t quite peg the feeling, can’t give himself the time to process as the games get going.

            Cards Against Humanity brings out raucous laughter as the scenarios set forth become increasingly worse, Pidge ends up with the most black cards. They smirk triumphantly at the rest of the group as they take their cards into their hands and then throw them in the air, and let them rain down in a baptism of filth, while the rest of the group complains about having to clean the mess. Uno is even more disastrous, as voices get louder and fistfights are threatened more than once.

            Hunk keeps calm, the only person who _doesn_ _’t_ accidentally flash their cards in a fit of rage, and takes the game.

            Just Dance brings them to nearly midnight, and nearly takes Keith into cardiac arrest.

            He doesn’t know how he ends up in front of the TV with Lance, Allura, and Romelle for Despacito, or how the remotes end up in their hands the way they do. Romelle holds the first remote, aligned with the character in the yellow shirt; Allura has remote two, for the character in the pink skirt; Keith has the third remote, for the character in the backwards baseball cap; and Lance, by some stroke of _dumb fucking luck,_ has the fourth remote, for the girl in the booty shorts and flowy yellow tank top.

            Keith’s dance partner.

            Keith’s no fool—he’s seen plays of the game before, seen this song specifically, knows how close he’s supposed to get to Lance. He whips around and shoots _daggers_ at Pidge, because they knew full well what they were doing when they handed off the remote, insisting Keith get up and have fun for once in his life.

            “I really don’t know about this,” Keith says, and turns to face the others, already extending his arm in the hopes that someone will take the remote from him and take his place. “I mean, I’m sure one of you wants to do this more—”

            “Do what, exactly?” Pidge calls.

            Keith’s eyes widen, and he mouths _I_ _’m going to murder you in your sleep_ at them, only earning a cheeky grin in response, before Lance’s hand on his arm snags his attention.

            “What?” he says, voice light and teasing. “You don’t wanna dance with me?”

            _Actually, I really do,_ Keith thinks, heart stuttering. _But I_ _’m kind of afraid I might die if I do._

            “No,” Keith answers out loud, despite the fact that his mouth may or may not be going dry at the look Lance levels at him. “I’m just afraid I might show you up. Contrary to popular belief, I care very deeply about the wellbeing of your ego.”

            _There._

            The room bursts into laughter while Lance gapes and sputters at him, and Keith puts on the coolest smirk he can muster. Even still, the ends of Lance’s mouth tug up, and he’s stuck staring, processing. His own thinking distracts him long enough to not hear the _I can cut the sexual tension in this room with a knife, hot damn,_ from one of the four girls gathered on the couch. It might be the one with the ponytail painfully reminiscent of JoJo Siwa’s, but Keith can’t be sure, exactly, because he doesn’t dare accidentally acknowledge them and then have to deal with _that_ conversation.

            “You think you can show me up?” Lance asks, and leans dangerously into Keith’s space until he presses their foreheads together. “Bring it on, Billy Ray Cyrus.”

            “You’re on, wannabe Beyoncé,” Keith says, face heating up.

            He still can’t tell if he’s imagining the same blush on Lance’s cheeks, and doesn’t get the time to properly check, because Romelle groans.

            “Alright, knock it off, let’s do this!”

            So they do.

            Keith spends the whole song painfully aware of the way Lance rolls his body, sensitive as to his hand on Lance’s waist at certain points _(is he leaning into it, what the fuck, is this allowed, what the FUCK)_ , and decides he’d rather die when they reach the end of the song, because while Romelle and Allura seem perfectly comfortable with Romelle’s hand on Allura’s back, their others clasped casually, Keith nearly combusts when Lance effortlessly pulls them into their ending pose. His hand rests against Keith’s chest, and he leans back into the arm Keith holds him with. Keith ends up supporting half of his weight, because for whatever fucking reason, Lance _doesn_ _’t_ register Keith losing feeling in his limbs and his heart hammering and his breath catching and—

            “It’s five minutes to midnight, if you fuckers don’t move and put New Year’s Rockin’ Eve back on right now—!” Pidge starts, and breaks Keith out of his stupor at the same moment Lance jumps—jumps out of his arms, and then laughs and sets down the remote, joins Hunk and Rachel for some discussion or another, while Allura swaps the TV from the Wii and back to cable.

            Keith settles on the couch next to Pidge and glares. “You’re a _gremlin._ ”

            “So I’ve been told,” they respond, leaning back. “Y’gonna get a New Year’s kiss or what?”

            Keith’s eyes shoot wide in alarm, and he whips his head around while Pidge throws their head back and _cackles._ Luckily, no one heard them—their remark, at least. But they definitely hear the cackling, and Keith can’t hide his beet red face fast enough.

            “What’s going on?” Lotor calls over. “Are you teasing him about his boyfriend?”

            “Boyfriend?”

            _Oh fuck._

            Cold washes over Keith and destroys any bit of warmth he’s been clinging to since Despacito ended, as Lance’s voice cuts across the room and somehow plunges it into _silence,_ uncomfortable and awkward as the shouting and laughter from elsewhere in the house filters through the door and walls.

            “Yes?” Lotor responds. “Aren’t you two together?”

            _Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck._

            Nausea roils Keith’s stomach as he turns to look at Lance, forces himself to meet his eyes. Lance holds his gaze for too many moments more than necessary, by Keith’s judgment, and then switches back to Lotor, brow furrowed.

            “No, we’re just best friends.”

            “Yeah, just best friends,” Keith echoes with a nod, his voice as hollow as his deflating heart.

            Lotor raises his eyebrows but ultimately doesn’t question it, and Rachel distracts everyone by calling out that it’s time for the ball drop and countdown. Keith barely mumbles the numbers, while everyone else screams. When the countdown reaches one, Keith watches Hunk gently kiss Shay, watches Romelle shyly press her lips against Allura’s, watches Zethrid caress Ezor and kiss her.

            He doesn’t even look at Lance.

 

**xxviii.**

            _“You know, you probably won’t end high school with the same friends you started with.”_

            Their growing distance is Keith’s fault, but he can’t stop. He drops out of conversations—stops responding, stops paying attention, makes himself aloof and cold in the hopes the others will cut him off before he has to take the scissors into his own hands. Texts go unread and without response for days, and those that _do_ get answered get short sentences, clipped words, singular-syllabled phrases.

            Leave it to Lance to nip it in the bud just a few weeks in.

            _Ur being a moron,_ the text from him reads one morning. _What happened?_

            No response.

            _Pls tell me if I did something wrong so I can fix it._

            Unread.

            _Just bc u look like Joe Jonas_ _’ character in Camp Rock doesn’t mean u can copy his dick attitude, u know._

            Keith laughs at that one, and hates himself for it afterward, because it’s the last one Lance bothers sending for three days. Keith debates finally sending one back, one that would read _it_ _’s complicated,_ but really it’s not—it’s not complicated at _all_ , the reasons for withdrawing, the reasons for shielding his heart. And it’s _Lance_ , who’s been at his side for over a decade. He deserves _some_ kind of explanation, in _person._ Not a text full of lies.

            _I_ _’m sorry. Can I explain in person? And make it up to you?_

            Lance replies not even a full minute later: _Door_ _’s open._

            Keith decides in that moment he doesn’t deserve Lance, and Lance sure as hell doesn’t deserve him.

 

**xxix.**

            They talk in the treehouse.

            Keith doesn’t remember when it became one of their spots, just as much as the back corner of the drama club closet, if not more. Keith’s memories in here span back years, and the last few weeks of not coming up here, the last few weeks of attempting to ghost the friend group rush back and punch him in the face for his stupidity as he draws his knees up and sits across from Lance, who stares at him with bags under his eyes and the deadest expression on his face.

            “What happened, Keith?” Lance asks, and his voice is hoarse. It’s flu season, he could be sick—that could also be the reason for the puffiness around his eyes, the slight red rim to them, but Keith’s—well, no, he is an idiot. At least at the moment. He can pretend Lance has been sick. It’ll make the apology a little easier.

            “I’m sorry,” Keith starts. “I’m—I’m really sorry, alright? I…this is my fault. You—none of you deserved me pulling this shit, but least of all you. I just…” Keith trails off, fumbles for words, tries to think of the most truthful way to go about this without blowing up the whole thing. “Lotor’s comment, at Allura’s. I didn’t…I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea, or scare you off, and I figured that if…if things fell apart, it’d be easier to take the fall, and…I tried to push all of you away. If you all were mad at me, it would hurt less to let you go.”

            “Let me g—Keith, _what_ are you _talking about?_ You think—you think I’m _uncomfortable_ with you?”

            He sounds _offended,_ that Keith would ever think such a thing, and Keith’s taken aback. He blinks.

            “Well… _yeah,_ I mean, Lotor kinda straight-up said he thought we were _dating_ , and then I decided I didn’t want you to be even more uncomfortable, because if he got that idea from one _night,_ I don’t know what the kids we actually _go to school with_ think, and I don’t want to ruin your dating pool or whatever, so I figured I’d back off…and I…took it a little too far. I’m _sorry_.”

            Lance takes his time before he responds; he stares at Keith, like he’s searching his face for something, and then shuts his eyes and looses a breath.

            “Keith,” he says, “we’ve been friends since we were _five._ We _grew up together_. I’m way beyond the point of ever being uncomfortable with you, y’know? You’re like…one of the only people I really feel truly at ease with, if I’m being honest. You’re family.”

            _Family._

            It strikes Keith so hard that he doesn’t even realize Lance never specified which role Keith filled.

 

**xxx.**

            He catches them in the middle of the hallway immediately after school gets out.

            Keith doesn’t know who instigated it, but when he arrives to the hallway nestled between the art wing and the back entrance to the gym, Keith finds students lingering a careful distance away from a group of four, pressed in against the wall—three forming a semicircle in front of a lone figure, smaller than the rest of them, taking turns swinging. He hears cries of pain— _knows_ those cries of pain.

            He acts on instinct.

            His legs carry him and his arms move before the thought’s even fully gone from his brain. A shout—some noise, unintelligible but angry enough—tears from his throat, wet and guttural, and the first of the guys turns around just in time for Keith’s fist to greet his face. He stumbles back, and one of his cronies reaches out to catch him while Keith rounds on the first one, and has to remind himself not to pull the not-exactly-legal switchblade he carries on himself for self-defense, because he’s still on school property, and if they’re caught he doesn’t know how things’ll play out, and he’d rather not get expelled five months before graduation.

            With two guys struggling to regain their footing, and the third distracted by helping them, Keith swoops in, throws arms around Lance and tries to pull his shaking form away from the group when the third’s head snaps up.

            “Oho, what’s this, McClain?” he calls.

            “You leave him the _fuck_ alone!” Keith shouts, and pushes Lance behind him, rolls up his sleeves, perfectly ready to go another round bashing this guy’s face in when the second guy looks up and smiles dizzily.

            “This your _boyyyfriiieeend?_ ”

            Keith’s fists clench and unclench. He doesn’t answer— _can_ _’t_ answer—can’t risk outing Lance to these guys, if they don’t already know—opens his mouth to ask what the _hell_ it matters—

            “Oh, so what if he is?” Lance calls over Keith’s shoulder. “At least I can _land_ a date!”

            “ _Ohhh,_ _now_ you fucked up,” the first guy says after a beat of silence, where several students in the hallway whistle or _ooh_ or pull out their phones, if they weren’t out already. They start inching forward, while Keith keeps shoving Lance back, despite Lance elbowing him back and trying to fight his way in front of Keith, when the angry footsteps of one of the art teachers clack down the hall.

            The guys shove past Keith and Lance and run, into the gym, and leave Keith and Lance and every last witness to explain that they cornered Lance, for one reason or another, and were going to—apparent quote, _beat the shit out of him_ —until Keith showed up.

            The explanation is corroborated by six different students, and in the end, Keith and Lance are allowed to slip away, to the art wing, where Lance had been heading for drama club rehearsal. But Lance doesn’t make it to the choir room. Keith grabs him by the wrist and drags him into the closet and shuts the door, drags him to the corner and orders him to sit on the edge of the table.

            “Keith, seriously—”

            “Shut up. Give me a sec.”

            Keith swipes the first aid kit from the board where Lance left it last time they needed it and opens it up, takes out a wet sanitizing cloth and turns back to Lance.

            “Where’d they get you?” Keith asks, voice gentler this time.

            “Just the face, mostly,” Lance answers, and true to his word, it’s definitely the worst area on him—a small cut’s opened up on his cheekbone, but he’s got other bruises. “They got my leg, and one hit to the stomach, but I’m okay, really—”

            “You’re not okay,” Keith interrupts, and dabs the cloth over the cut, cleans the smallest bit of blood. Even when the blood is gone, Keith swipes a fresh cloth over the rest of his face, to clear away whatever traces of dirt remain from the guys’ fists.

            “Keith, really…thank you, for, ah…coming to my rescue,” Lance says, and Keith shrugs.

            “It’s what boyfriends are for, isn’t it?”

            Maybe his voice comes off a little cold. It’s not at Lance—Keith’s mind is still stuck on those guys, the people who are the same reason he’s back here cleaning Lance’s injuries in the first place—but Lance must misinterpret it, because he drops his eyes to the floor as Keith continues checking him over.

            “Yeah, about that…I’m…sorry, if _I_ made _you_ uncomfortable with that. I-I wasn’t thinking, and you’ve still—you’ve still got that other guy you’re hung up on, don’t you?”

            Keith freezes.

            “Yeah, see? There it is,” Lance says. “You’ve—you’ve been hung up on the same guy for _years,_ dude. I can see it, I’ve _been_ seeing it. You always have this—this longing look on your face. I don’t wanna encroach on that, even if the guy’s straight, I don’t want to— _fuck,_ I wasn’t thinking, okay? I won’t—”

            “I really don’t know how someone can be so perceptive and so oblivious at the same time,” Keith interrupts in a mutter, and Lance’s eyes snap back to his.

            “What?”

            But Keith’s laughing. Incredulously. He sets down the cloth and turns away from Lance, to cover his face with his hands and fucking _laugh_. Lance watches him, eyebrows knitting, shame simmering deep inside of him.

            “Keith, I’m being serious,” he tries.

            “So am I,” Keith responds, breathless, as he turns back around.

            Lance sighs. “I don’t know how to tell you that laughter doesn’t exactly equate to serious. You sound like the Joker right now.”

            “First of all, the Joker asks why _other_ people are so serious. _He_ _’s_ not serious. Secondly, I don’t know whether I’m the bigger idiot or if you are,” Keith replies.

            At that, Lance’s eyes narrow further. “I don’t get it.”

            “Lance.” His name escapes Keith’s lips in a breath, as Keith trails a hand through Lance’s hair, lets it come to rest at the back of his neck. He steps forward until Lance’s legs are on either side of him. A blaze ignites underneath Lance’s skin, spreads out across his face, and his freckles catch like matches and let the burn spread, but at least he’s not alone in this—Keith’s cheeks become two bright beacons of red as he locks eyes with Lance, and uses his other hand to cup his cheek. “It’s been you this whole time.”

            “W-What?” Lance hardly manages a whisper, because there’s no way this is happening, no way he heard Keith correctly, no way _he_ _’d_ be the object of Keith’s affections, because it’s ridiculous! Keith’s—he’s cooler, and more relaxed and mature and calm and collected—more sure of himself—would never fall for someone who’s internally screaming 24/7—wouldn’t fall for a _goofball_ —

            _“It doesn’t matter, the guy’s straight. I’ve gotta learn to get over him.”_

            That was junior year! Lance knew by then that—

            _Oh._

_Oh fuck._

_Lance_ knew by then that he was bi, but he hadn’t told anyone—had kept it to himself—hadn’t told Keith until months later, in the dark in the treehouse—and that whole thing about Rolo—not being his type— _different, different from the guy I like—_ this whole time? This _whole damn time?_

            “No way,” he continues. “There’s no—you’re lying, I-I’m not—”

            “Lance,” Keith interrupts, and _—oh my God he_ _’s leaning in—_ “shut up.”

            And then Keith presses his lips against Lance’s.

            It’s a little stiff, a little awkward at first, neither quite sure how to approach the other, but then Lance wraps arms around Keith's back and tugs him in, until their bodies are flush against each others’. Keith tilts his head and his lips slot against Lance’s at an angle much more conducive to kissing, and then Lance slides a hand up the back of Keith’s shirt, palm molded to the curve of his spine. Keith’s fingers slide up into Lance’s hair, tangle in the straightened strands.

            “How long?” Lance whispers when Keith finally pulls them apart so they can breathe.

            “What?”

            “How long have you liked me?”

            Keith shakes his head, musses his bangs and Lance’s as he does.

            “I’m not even sure. Since we were twelve, maybe?”

            “Holy shit,” Lance breathes out. “Since we were— _Keith, what the fuck?_ How did you manage—?”

            “I just wanted you happy,” Keith interrupts, “and I didn’t want to lose you.”

            Words rise up in Lance’s throat and then lodge there when the full weight of Keith’s confession crashes down on him. Six years—six years he spent pining, saying nothing, being there anyway—dealing with _Lance_ _’s pining_ —just because he wanted Lance _happy._ Just because he wanted to keep their friendship alive.

            Words can’t do him justice, so Lance speaks by pulling Keith back in, and Keith lets Lance guide him.

            They’re both late for rehearsal.

 

**xxxi.**

            Waves crash along the shoreline at the beach, abandoned in the middle of winter, save for the lone two souls sitting along the stone wall that stretches the entirety of the property. Despite the cold, Lance twines their fingers, a way to remind himself _holy shit, this is real, Keith likes me—I like him and he likes me._ His heartbeat thunders through his body and does nothing to keep him steady; _Keith_ is the only thing keeping him anchored to reality, keeping his soul from detaching from his body and floating away without the rest of him.

            “I still can’t believe… _twelve_. We were _twelve._ What…what about twelve-year-old Lance was…appealing?”

            Keith’s movements are careful, deliberate. He inhales slowly, deeply. The closet was a lie—he was absolutely certain, still remembers the moment in the middle of the night his stomach plummeted and the rest of his world dropped out from underneath him. Remembers dark hair on his shoulder, tickling his neck and cheek, a body pressed up right against his.

            “I don’t know,” Keith says. “You were always _there,_ I guess. I liked having you around. I got used to you in my life. And then…I think these last couple years are when the feelings got…really serious. Christmas…it felt so _right,_ you being there, with me, and…”

            “And then New Year’s, I wasn’t imagining that,” Lance says. “I…I said we were just best friends and that killed _me,_ and then…”

            “I ghosted.”

            “You ghosted.”

            “I’m still not proud of that,” Keith says, and he looks away from Lance, out at the sun drawing closer to the horizon, as the winter sky changes from bright blue to pale blue, pink, orange, purple. “I just thought…I thought maybe you’d put it together, and didn’t want anything to do with it. And I didn’t…if people assumed we were boyfriends and you didn’t _want that_ , then I needed to distance myself.”

            Lance shakes his head, lowers his chin, stares at the rocks sprawling out beneath them, plunging into frosty ocean. “I thought you were distancing yourself because _I_ was getting too close. All these years, what you said to me, about that guy you needed to get over, I thought you were talking about someone else. I dunno _who_ but I…” Lance blows out a harsh breath through his nose and drops his voice. “I wish I’d kissed you.”

            Keith snorts softly. “I wish I’d kissed you, too.” Then his smile fades, and he finally looks at Lance, and Lance turns and meets his gaze head-on. “When…when did you…?”

            Another shake of his head. “I don’t know, it just…it just kinda happened. I think when you started dating Rolo, I had this feeling, but I thought that was just me being like, a protective best friend, but then…when it didn’t work out with Allura, and then you and I ended up at prom together…something clicked, and it was like my brain went _it_ _’s Keith, you like Keith. You’ve liked Keith._ And I went _oh, yeah, that makes sense._ ”

            A chilly wind cuts through, then, and Keith and Lance automatically inch closer to each other, until they’re fully pressed up against each other, intertwined hands resting on Keith’s leg.

            “So now what?” Lance goes on. “What-what are we? What do we tell people?”

            “Well, how do you wanna take this?” Keith asks. “I mean, people already thought we were a thing. I’d say we don’t have to do much differently.”

 

**xxxii.**

            So they don’t. Not really.

            Changes are more subtle, between each other more than between them and the school at large. They hold hands without fear of accidentally being too forward, hold hands without the fear of the other wrenching away in disgust. One’s space is the other’s space, and they invade without issue. The flinging about of nicknames increases in volume, but then again, they’ve always been cheeky with each other.

            The only true change is the kissing.

            “Hey, Starboy,” Keith greets Lance at lunch and sits down in the seat he’s had all year—right next to him—and kisses his cheek in full view of all their other friends.

            “Fucking _finally_ ,” Pidge mutters under their breath, while Hunk promptly chokes on his sandwich, and Shay thunks him on the back. Allura sighs, and slides ten dollars across the table to Rachel, who smirks and stows it in the back pocket of her jeans.

            “What?!” Lance asks, and gestures wildly to the two of them. “Were you _betting_ on us?!”

            Rachel shrugs. “Maybe.” Hunk chokes a second time at the bluntness of her statement, while she returns to stabbing a fork into her salad. “It only took you like, a year to get it together, so. Y’know. Could’ve taken you to college.”

            Lance decides then that he doesn’t wanna know how long the others were betting for. He sighs, scowls (only half-serious), and leans over until he’s resting against Keith.

            “Our friends are dicks, babe.”

 

**xxxiii.**

            The next weeks carry on without incident, as Keith and Lance’s lives pull tighter together. They end up driving each other to school most mornings, as January becomes February. They spend Valentine’s Day on a group date with Hunk and Shay, Allura and Romelle, Zethrid and Ezor, and Lance greets Keith that morning with not a teddy bear, not chocolates or roses, but a woven bracelet of red and blue string, their initials stitched inside of a heart.

            Keith cries.

            A few weeks later, he gets back at Lance by hijacking the sound system during musical rehearsal, long before their directors arrive. He serenades Lance with the cheesiest song he can think of for the occasion—What the Heck I Gotta Do, from _21 Chump Street_ —and promposes with Pidge’s aid, as they pull down the projector and blast _SITH SABERS ARE RED, SOME JEDI_ _’S ARE BLUE, I’D LIKE TO GO TO PROM ON MAY THE 4TH WITH YOU._

            Lance cries and jumps into Keith’s arms on the stage while the rest of the cast and crew whoop and cheer, and it’s enough to keep Keith’s jelly legs from giving out underneath him.

            It’s also how they announce to most of their casual friends that they’re together, and they both choose to ignore the _finallys_ and _it_ _’s about times_.

 

**xxxiv.**

            _Keith open ur emails RIGHT NOW_

_KOGANE_

_ANSWER THE PHONE_

_K E I T H  THIS IS A MATTER OF LIFE OR DEATH_

In the middle of March, Keith wakes up to his phone vibrating violently, to the point it nearly falls off of his headboard and clean onto his face. He squints, reads _11:03 AM_ on his phone, realizes he’s overslept, and realizes he has 27 unread text messages. Twenty from Lance, two from Hunk, and five from Pidge, all demanding the same thing: that he check the applicant link on the Arus website.

            “Shit!”

            It’s Saturday, meaning March 17th, meaning admissions decisions are out—meaning he’ll know whether or not he’s gotten into his top choice. He knows Hunk and Pidge applied, too, and Lance— _Lance, fucking shit_ —

            Keith jumps out of bed and all but crashes into his desk chair. It wheels a good foot away from his desk, and he reaches over for his laptop, throws it open. He left it sleeping the night before, instead of shut down, and good thing, because he’s not keen on waiting for it to boot up. He punches in his password hard enough for the worry about breaking the keys crosses his mind, briefly, before he props his phone up on its PopSocket and calls Lance on FaceTime.

            “Why didn’t you just come over and barge into my room?” Keith demands as soon as Lance picks up. “Really? Today of all days, you couldn’t just waltz on in and start screaming?”

            _“I’m a gentleman sometimes,”_ Lance snarks back. _“You got the link open yet or not?”_

“It’s loading,” Keith responds, watching as the circle in the corner of his screen spins at an agonizingly slow pace. “Did you look yet?”

            _“No?”_ Lance says like it’s obvious. _“I’m—there’s no way in hell I got in, I-I shouldn’t have applied in the first place. I’m fucking terrified. I’ve been sitting here staring at this screen for hours, and like, Hunk called Rachel and tried to get her to bully me into opening it but I couldn’t and—”_

“Page loaded,” Keith interrupts, and sees now the link Lance is talking about, the link that’ll take him to his decision. “Listen to me. You listening?”

            _“My brain’s going at like a hundred miles an hour but yeah, I hear you, what—”_

            “We’re gonna look at the same time, okay? Count of three,” Keith says, and flicks his eyes to his phone, flicks his eyes to Lance breathing out a laugh and dragging a hand down his face.

            _“Okay. One…”_

“Two.”

            They count _three_ in unison, and Lance shrieks and clicks the button and then immediately flings himself out of his chair—Keith hears the groan from the video as a thud sounds. Keith looks away from his own screen, willing himself to keep his eyes on Lance, even once the page loads, because Lance still isn’t in his seat, is still on the floor muttering _I can_ _’t look I can’t look I can’t look_ —

            “Lance, get up and look!” Keith shouts, and Lance grunts again, and then hesitantly reenters the frame. Keith waits for him, waits for Lance’s eyes to land on his laptop screen. Keith sees the moment Lance looks, and turns toward his own monitor.

            _Dear Keith, Congratulations!_

            _“Holy shit,”_ Lance says, and then again, louder, _“Holy shit!”_ And then a stream of Spanish that Keith can’t process in time before Lance bolts out of his room, FaceTime abandoned. Keith smiles regardless—if the look on Lance’s face was any indication, he knows what his decision is, too.

 

**xxxv.**

            Spring brings a whirlwind of events, beginning with senior prom.

            Prom takes place on May 4th, Star Wars Day, and Lance and Keith show up to prom in red and blue blazers in an effort to create John Boyega’s red carpet essence—Lance’s suggestion, naturally. Keith wears red, Lance’s favorite color; Lance wears Keith’s favorite color, blue. The sight of him nearly knocks Keith over when he arrives at the McClain house ahead of the rest of their friend group.

            The blue of the suit brings out Lance’s eyes, glittering underneath equally-as-sparkly eye makeup. He laughs when Keith flushes red, and pulls him in for prom photos on the same staircase that they thundered up and down as kids, in muddied clothes, with mussed hair and dirty faces. Mrs. McClain takes the first few photos, and then Lance’s older sister, Veronica, takes over, and lets the two of them unleash horrible pose after horrible pose.

            Keith looks over the photos afterward, and decides he wants to frame every one, even the two that look like they belong on rap album covers, rather than the walls of a home.

            They pose for more photos when the rest of the gang arrives, and then climb into the party bus they rented out—pooling every last drop of their collective funds together, after paying for dresses and suits and tickets and hair appointments and nail appointments—and sing at the top of their lungs to every Top 40 hit that plays on the radio. Keith lets himself indulge in the lightness swelling in his chest and spreading through the rest of him.

            He spends the night on the dance floor. Past homecomings, last year’s prom, he wasn’t much for dancing. But Lance was— _is_ —and Keith falls into step beside him, and the group follows suit. They only slip away from the gang at large to hit the photobooth by themselves. They dismiss the props laid out on a table next to the booth, as Lance pulls Keith inside and draws the curtain shut.

            No silly photos this time—an unspoken agreement passes between the two of them as they choose tame poses, instead. Lance with his arm draped over Keith’s shoulder, both of them smiling at the camera; them turned toward one another, gazing into each others’ eyes; Keith gripping the collar of Lance’s shirt as he tugs them in, seconds before their mouths come together; and finally, them kissing, Lance’s hands sliding into Keith’s hair.

            They only feel a little guilty for the technician stuck on duty developing each set of photos.

            Prom closes out with an announcement of Prom King and Prom Queen—Lance and Allura, like Keith ever really expected anything differently from his social butterfly of a boyfriend. They start off the slow dance, but as soon as a group of kids amasses around them, dancing with their own partners, they break away, Allura seeking out Romelle, and Lance snaking arms around Keith’s waist, while Keith clasps his hands behind Lance’s neck.

            “This is nice,” Keith whispers, corners of his mouth pulling up, and Lance laughs quietly and presses his forehead against Keith’s.

            “Nicer than last year, that’s for sure.”

            They’re one of the last couples on the dance floor when the song ends, still spinning in slow circles, swaying, lost in their own little space, and it’s inexplicably _right_ , like Keith was supposed to end up here right from the start—at his senior prom, in Lance’s arms. The same arms he’s trusted for years, the arms he trusts above all others.

            “I love you,” Keith breathes out before he can stop and think, but he won’t take it back, because it’s true. He’s said it a handful of times, the way best friends do—but _this,_ this is loaded with years’ worth of unspoken emotion, and the anchor lifts from Keith’s chest as Lance smiles and leans in and captures his lips again, and whispers the _I love you too_ right into his mouth.

            Something inside of Keith goes supernova.

            It starts in his chest and rockets through his blood; his limbs tingle, and his knees give out underneath him. This isn’t the place— _this so isn_ _’t the place_ —but Lance holds him up, guides him back to their table and their group of friends, gathering their things to head back to the bus so they can go home, change, and hit post-prom, at the Sports Center.

            “You have fun back there?” Pidge teases when they rejoin everyone else.

            Keith flushes, but Lance grins and holds him closer. “The most fun, and it’s not over yet.”

            Keith doesn’t find out what _that_ means until long after the bus trip back to his house (where Keith slumps over on Lance’s shoulder and takes a twenty minute nap, vaguely aware of Lance taking off his crown and placing it on _his_ head, after pressing a kiss to his hair), long after they change out of their suits (but leave their makeup on, because nobody’s got time for that), long after they carpool in three separate vehicles.

            Keith doesn’t find out until two in the morning, when they’re the last two people out underneath a black sky twinkling with stars, bathed in the white lights of the Sports Center’s mini golf course. They perch on top of the waterfall. It’s a little dangerous, but there’s no one around to tell them no, no one around to bother them as they abandon their clubs and golf balls on the green, and Lance slings an arm around Keith’s shoulders again.

            “Is this what you meant by _it_ _’s not over yet?_ ” Keith asks quietly, eyes on the sky stretching out before them.

            The Sports Center is in a secluded area, large enough to hold their batting cages, driving ranges, sprawling mini golf course, ice rink, arcade—every last sport, crammed into one plot of land. This far out from the city, there’s a lot less light pollution, and the stars overhead, despite the stadium lights, are some of the brightest Keith’s been able to see in years.

            “Yeah,” Lance says. “Y’know, I thought you’d ask when I was falling on my ass back in the rinks, but I hope this is better.”

            “Infinitely better, because you’re not screaming and grabbing at my ankles like a demon,” Keith quips back, leaning his head on Lance’s shoulder.

            “Speaking of demons, didn’t a new Buzzfeed Unsolved drop in the middle of prom?” Lance sets his head on top of Keith’s as he speaks and slides a hand underneath Keith’s _Arus University_ -emblazoned sweatshirt, one that matches the one Lance wears, a set they picked up on Accepted Students’ Day. “Y’wanna watch it when we get back to my house?”

            “It’s gonna be four in the morning by the time we get back and settled in,” Keith says, “but sure, if you want.”

            And they fall into silence.

            In the distance, they pick up on classmates’ voices—shouting, laughing—carried by the winds that blow through the golf course and ruffle Keith’s hair, free a few curls from their gel slick on Lance’s head. Those voices roll over them, ignored, until Keith can’t hear them anymore—can only hear the waterfall rushing underneath them, spraying them with a light mist, and Lance’s breathing.

            They don’t leave for a long time. Lance starts humming some song—it’s Spanish, and somewhere in the back of Keith’s mind he can recall broken strings of lyrics, from his time spent in Lance’s house—and Keith closes his eyes and basks in the sensation of Lance holding him, the fingers pressing into the skin of his waist. It’s here he can lose himself to the calming tide that is the rumbling in Lance’s chest and throat, here he can lose himself to the hands that have held him a thousand times over thirteen years.

            So he does.

 

**xxxvi.**

            “Curtain’s in ten minutes, where are you taking Lance—?!”

            “He’ll be back in a minute, don’t worry about it! Just go find the damn mic tape, maybe!”

            Keith and Lance tear down the hall, shoving past underclassmen, careful not to snag the cord of Lance’s mic on something by accident. Keith’s hand grips Lance’s wrist, iron-like, as he wrenches open the door to the closet, shoves Lance in ahead of him, and then shuts it once he enters after. They stumble over wires and loose props and the odd piece of wood toward their back corner, and once they’re there, Keith’s hand slides into Lance’s, down from his wrist, and he intertwines their fingers.

            “Ready?” Keith’s voice goes down to a whisper as he drops his head and closes his eyes, and Lance mimics him.

            Lance squeezes his hand in silent confirmation, and then all Keith knows is the beat of his heart, still pounding in his ears; the smell of wood and peeling paint and probably-moldy costumes the drama club hasn’t touched in years; Lance, the grounding presence next to him, trying to quiet his panting, all decked out in his Prince Eric costume. Beyond the door, other students shout, and then one of the seniors yells for _silence, heathens, you_ _’re backstage and house is open!_

            They stay a little longer than they mean to, until their breathing has evened out, until they’re not gasping anymore, until their anxieties melt away as much as they can. Keith squeezes Lance’s hand this time, raises his head, opens his eyes, and finds Lance’s tear-filled gaze on him.

            “Final night,” he croaks. “One last time.”

            Keith smiles wistfully. “We’re gonna teach ‘em how to say goodbye.” He pulls Lance in for a hug, careful not to mess with the placement of his mic, or the deliberately-messy tuck of his shirt. “Break a leg out there, Starboy.”

            They draw back, fractionally, and Lance’s eyes drift down to Keith’s mouth, and he acts on the impulse he shoved down months ago and kisses Keith, one hand cupping the back of his head. Keith grips Lance’s biceps and tilts his head and pulls Lance in deeper, as deep as he can go without ruining Lance’s makeup— _but I_ do _have the strongest setting spray I could find, so do your worst, Kogane,_ Lance had said two nights ago, in front of the entire cast, earning heavy blushing from Keith and groaning from everyone else—until Lance pulls back.

            “Go get ‘em,” Keith says, and then shoves Lance ahead of him. “Seriously, _go,_ there are like, five minutes to curtain now and if you’re not in places the director’s gonna kick both of our asses.”

            Lance shrugs, even as he begins moving. “Oh, what’s he gonna do, recast me?”

            Lance doesn’t get recast.

            He kills his last performance like his life depends on it. Keith’s heard him sing over the years, over months of rehearsals and watching from the wings and purposely creating set problems just to have an excuse to be nearby, but this is his peak. He saved the best for last, and when the final notes of the final song drift out, the audience explodes. Keith himself has to refrain from whooping from the wings—much easier to do when Pidge is already there, clamping a hand over his mouth and holding him in place.

            After final bows, crew breaks free of the wings, breaks free from the back of the auditorium, to join the cast on stage.

            Keith finds his place underneath Lance’s arm, and Lance squishes him close and kisses his cheek in full view of the audience. Heat rushes to Keith’s face, as laughter bubbles out of him, and he winds his arm around Lance’s waist and tugs him in even closer, and for once the stage lights don’t beat down on him, heavy like the rays of the sun. They drape over him like a blanket, warm and inviting, and Keith revels in his roughly-carved space in the auditorium for the last time.

 

**xxxvii.**

            Lance is there.

            He’s there for every other milestone of Keith’s life, and Keith is there for his.

            Lance shrieks when Keith gives his valedictorian speech at graduation, and promptly picks him up and twirls him around and kisses him as soon as grad caps hit the air, and then rain down around them in a shower of blue and white.

            (He shrieks again the next day, when he finds a photo of that moment on the local newspaper’s website, among hundreds of other photos from the ceremony.)

            They’re at each others’ sides, legs sprawled over each others’ in Keith’s living room when the housing portal opens up on the Arus website, and they officially select each other as roommates.

            (“Oh my God, they were roommates—” A pillow across the room, and, “Shut up, Lance.”)

            They’re with each other every single day and night when they begin college—there to help each other through stress and breakdowns, there for cat naps and late nights and dates around campus.

            (“Y’wanna get Insomnia Cookies?” “It’s one in the morning.” “Yeah, and they deliver till two.” “…What’s the menu look like?”)

            Lance is there for Shiro and Adam’s wedding, where Keith plays Shiro’s best man and Lance plays Keith’s date.

            (“That’s gonna be us one day.” A breath, as Keith rests his forehead against Lance’s. “Yeah. That’s gonna be us.”)

            Keith is there when Lance’s older relatives finally pass on, there when several of his older siblings get married, with a shoulder to cry on and arms to hold him with and feet to hold both of their weights.

            (“I’ve got you. Let it out, babe.”)

            Lance is there when Keith’s mother reenters his life after over two decades of being AWOL. Keith is there when Lance decides the best course of action is to arrive to their apartment one afternoon with two freshly-adopted kittens (named Red and Blue, for their breeds, for their fur colors, for their favorite colors).

            (“Cats have nothing to do with my mom reappearing!” “Uh, yeah they do.” “ _What?!_ ” “You were sad, and you like cats. Keith plus cats equals not sad. See, Red already likes you!”)

            They’re both on the beach, giggly and slightly drunk and sandy and ocean-salted when they drop to one knee and propose simultaneously.

 

**xxxviii.**

            “Your hand got us into this,” Keith announces when he gets the microphone.

            Waves crash behind him as their wedding guests erupt with laughter, and Lance gapes, unsure of what to make of the statement, because _yeah_ , his hands have done things that may or may not be suitable for the younger end of their audience, but Keith _can_ _’t just say that, what the fuck—_

            “You and that _stupid_ hand,” Keith continues, clearly amused with Lance’s flustered state. “I’ve thought about it almost every single day for _twenty years._ Tiny, five-year-old Lance, walking up to little, five-year-old Keith, sticking his hand out and taking mine and not looking back. You told me you didn’t want to lose your partner, and look at that. All these years later and you still haven’t shaken me.”

            Lance chokes.

            He doesn’t mean to do it out loud, but he does, and his vision blurs and Keith laughs at him, and squeezes that same hand now, squeezes their twined fingers until his knuckles turn white.

            “That’s the promise I’m here to make today,” Keith says, and his eyes remain fully on Lance now, and his voice goes softer. “I took your hand as much as you took mine, and maybe it took me a few years to realize, but I didn’t want to lose my partner, either. I _still_ don’t. We’ve been through _everything_ together, Lance. Twenty years of my life, I’ve given to you, and I want you to have all the rest there are to come, if you’ll have them.”

            He swallows past the lump in his throat as Lance nods, vigorous, because it’s all he can do. He blinks a few times to clear his eyes, licks his lips several times over, takes the mic from Keith and into his shaking hand.

            “I really didn’t know what I was getting myself into when I stuck that hand out, huh,” he remarks, and hopes the mic makes up for the power he can’t put behind his words, or else he’ll start sobbing right there; it does its job, because giggles ripple through the crowd. “You’re right. I didn’t want to lose my partner then, and I don’t now. It took me some time to realize, Keith, but I don’t want to do this whole _life_ thing without you. I’m not _me_ without you. You took my hand all those years ago…so will you take it again now?”

            “I already am, doofus,” Keith whispers as their officiant takes the mic back, and their heads bend and shoulders shake with the laughter they try (and fail, partly) to smother.

            They’re still holding hands when they slide rings on each others’ fingers, and they're with each other when they each say _I do._

**Author's Note:**

> well i hope u guys enjoyed that
> 
> i don't know what's updating next so in the meantime:  
> -stan [stealing our own place in the sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15900732/chapters/37059441), my fix-it fic where i rewrite all of voltron after season 3  
> -stan [deceit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11297529/chapters/25276539) [so](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11473437/chapters/25727043) [natural](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11743020/chapters/26462739), my first ever voltron fic/series. i recently did [some](https://twitter.com/astralscrivener/status/1073709760741036033) [livetweet](https://twitter.com/astralscrivener/status/1073899746492907520) [threads](https://twitter.com/astralscrivener/status/1081684525179113472) where i did commentary and tallied up everything i did first before it happened in canon, and i came up with **49 things** , (and personally i think i did them better) so if u haven't read it yet, mayhaps check it out
> 
> alright that's it YEET BYE


End file.
